Monastario's Haunted Christmas
by IcyWaters
Summary: On Nochebuena, Capitán Monastario is visited by an old friend who just happens to have died seven years prior. Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" meets Walt Disney's Zorro.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This story is based upon characters appearing in the Walt Disney Zorro television series. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made. I don't own it. Charles Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_ was first published in December 1843. It is now in the public domain in the United States, my country of residence. I don't own it.

Author's Note: This story is dedicated to the memory of Britt Lomond, whose immense talents gave us a villain as enduring as the hero he chased; and to Ida Mirei, who shares my admiration for the dashing Capitán Monastario.

* * *

**Monastario's Haunted Christmas**

**Chapter 1  
****"Old Soldiers Never Die"**

Corporal Ramón Beltrán Cordova was dead. There could be no doubt about this fact whatsoever. The register of his death and burial was recorded in three places—by the army, a padre at the local church and a clerk in the nearest ciudad.

Capitán Enrique Sanchez Monastario knew this truth better than anyone. He witnessed the corporal gunned down in battle, listened as a voice amid the chaos read Cordova his last rites, and helped wrap the body and place it into a coffin. With two other soldiers, he escorted the remains across the border into Spain. It would not do for Monastario to bury his friend in France. On home soil, they dug the hole for the undertaker to lower the casket into and then shoveled the dirt back in.

Corporal Ramón Beltrán Cordova was dead as a doornail.

Every year, the Christmas season approached and reminded Monastario of this death. He could not avoid it no matter how much he tried. Seven years ticked by and he now lived on the other side of the world, but it did nothing to dull the pain. If anything, Los Angeles served as a red-hot poker stabbing an open wound.

The festivities—the torture—began with the feast of the Immaculate Conception on the eighth of December. Nativity scenes sprouted up all over the pueblo. Fine porcelain figurines were displayed in elaborate fashion inside homes while more robust wooden carvings were placed on porches.

Poinsettias lined the pueblo as far as the eye could see. Farmers from Mexico carted them up the coast of Alta California. The plants with bright red leaves encircled the well in the center of the plaza, were clustered outside buildings and hung from balconies. They littered stairways and patios, were balanced on railings and given as gifts.

Monastario hated the damn weeds.

Not only were they the color of freshly spilled blood, they also posed a hazard for his men. With the influx of plants came a need for additional clay pots to house them in. That irritating pain the rear known as el Zorro certainly did not need more ammunition to bash over the heads of his soldiers.

Already in a sour mood for the day, the capitán exited the cuartel. Tall and handsome with the slender frame of an exceptional swordsman, he understood at a young age he cut a dashing figure. Beautiful señoritas adored his baby blue eyes and melted upon hearing his voice. The grey at his temples gave him a distinguished edge that demanded respect.

Striking as he was in his own right, the uniform emphasized his natural authority. The afternoon sun glinted off the medals pinned to his chest. Dressed in the dark blue jacket and spotless white trousers befitting an officer in the King's Army, he held a most imposing presence.

Never did he relish this more than when he strolled across the plaza at Christmastime. Pesky children ran from his sight. Carolers gathered near the church ceased their racket. Merchants and customers exchanging holiday greetings silenced. No one dare muttered the words Feliz Navidad near his ears. The citizens learned that quickly during his first year as commandante.

Near the well at the middle of the plaza, he kicked a poinsettia out of his path.

Monastario considered enacting an ordinance to ban those repulsive things, but those arrogant landowners fought him tooth and nail at every turn. He did not want to waste his time on petty matters when he needed to concentrate on crushing the dons. So, he allowed them their trivial plants.

Entering the tavern, he proceeded to his favorite seat when he stopped and arched an eyebrow. The barmaid scurried the length of the sala and removed the weed from his table. Satisfied the nuisance was gone, he settled into his chair. It offered him a view out the window and of customers coming and going through the door. No one, not even Zorro, could sneak up on him.

Savoring the glass of fine Rioja, he observed the other patrons. Two old doddering hacendados drowsed over their mugs in the far corner. His soldiers, led by Sergeant Garcia, clustered in the corner, eating lunch and playing cards, burning off the last pesos from payday. A few vaqueros were scattered about. Most Los Angelenos were too busy making preparations for Christmas to stop in the posada.

Monastario's frazzled nerves started to unwind as he enjoyed the closest thing to a festive-free atmosphere outside the cuartel. Decorations constructed of colorful, waxy paper hung from the walls, but he rationalized those could just as easily be for a birthday party or to celebrate a visiting dignitary. He even pictured them displayed in his honor, though he knew these peasants would only decorate for him to celebrate his death.

The tavern door creaked open and the capitán's eyes narrowed when no one entered. Just when he thought a breeze blew it ajar, the newcomer shuffled in with his head bowed, clutching a hat between his hands. Threadbare clothes draped over the hunched shoulders. His wife and two niños followed behind and paused off to the side of the doorway. Heaven forbid they were to block the entrance.

The capitán chuckled. A family of meek little mice!

Monastario recognized the man as Serrato—or was it Serrano?—who arrived a few days ago complete with a sob story of venturing north in search of work. He gave them one week to find employment or leave. The sooner such riffraff were out of his district the better.

Serrato approached the innkeeper at the bar. He stood in silence like an obedient mutt, not so much as even clearing his throat to get the proprietor's attention. Monastario sipped from his goblet and counted the minutes. When the innkeeper finally turned, Serrato kept his gaze aimed at the floor.

Monastario snorted. Even that popinjay de la Vega, in all his annoyance, possessed enough bravado to lift his nose out of a book and look a man in the eye when speaking. This Serrato would dissolve into the floorboards if confronted by the commandante.

He caught a few whispers between them, his curiosity piqued with the mention of pesos. Leaning forward on elbows to get a better listen, he pretended to study the swirling red wine.

"I am sorry, Señor, but I could not find any chores to do," Serrato said.

"You can clean the stable and your wife can help Maria tidy up when the tavern closes tonight," the innkeeper replied, "until you get enough money to pay for the room."

Monastario joined them at the bar. "Am I to understand your guest is guilty of nonpayment?"

Serrato tugged at the hat, keeping his chin down. "I-I am t-trying, Capitán."

"Sí, we are working out an agreement," the innkeeper maintained.

"I did not ask for excuses." Monastario drew up to his full height and squared his shoulders. "Señor Innkeeper, this man and his family have been occupying one of your rooms, correct?"

"Sí."

Monastario nodded in satisfaction. "Has he paid for the room?"

"No."

"Now, was that so difficult?" Monastario inquired, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Sergeant Garcia."

Cards went flying from the chubby fingers. The sergeant leaped up from his chair, knocking it to the floor with his ample girth. He lumbered over to his superior officer and saluted. "Sí, mi Capitán."

Monastario indicated Serrato. "This man and his family are under arrest. Escort them to jail."

"Under arrest?" Garcia repeated, "The whole family? Even the niños?"

Monastario gritted his teeth. "Sí, Sergeant, they are all under arrest."

"But tomorrow is Christmas Eve," Garcia protested.

"Sí, it is almost Nochebuena," the innkeeper chimed in.

"That is enough! I do not care if tomorrow is Easter or the King's birthday." Monastario's fingers curled into fists at his sides and his temples pulsated with the start of a headache. "These vagabonds are in direction violation of the law. Do as ordered, Sergeant, or you will share the cell next to them."

Garcia gulped. Waving for other lancers to assist him, they led Serrato and his family out the door. Monastario exhaled a long breath. How did his superiors in Santa Barbara and Monterey expect him to catch the outlaw Zorro with such incompetence under his command?

After swallowing the last drops of Rioja from his goblet, he followed his soldiers to the cuartel, half expecting them to lose the prisoners if left to their own devices. As he descended the last step outside the tavern, he tripped over some boy—a beggar—with a limp.

"Get out of my way," he seethed.

Color drained from the boy's face and he scampered behind the wall.

Monastario recovered his footing seconds before falling to the dirt and straightened his uniform, only to turn and collide into the de la Vega manservant. The deaf mute held a roll of jewel-toned paper that got snagged in the capitán's aiguillette. Freeing the white braided cord of the spool, he pushed the smiling baboso away.

"Why does this pueblo have so many cripples?"

Sergeant Garcia halted his pace. "Oh, they are not cripples, Commandante. That is Bernardo, Don Diego's mozo. He must be purchasing paper to wrap gifts. The little boy is Timoteo. He is–"

"How many times must I tell you, Sergeant?" Monastario felt his self-control slipping away with each word. How much ineptitude can one man endure? "I don't care. Now get moving!"

Would this hellish day never end?

* * *

Capitán Monastario sank into the chair behind his desk, seeking to derive refuge in the sanctuary of his office. In the darkest recesses of his mind, he heard merchants exchanging cheerful season's greetings and the carolers singing hymns the second he turned his back. He rose to his feet, drew his rapier and practiced lunging to block out the noises.

The familiar weight of the sword in his hand felt soothing and Monastario unleashed his bottled fury on a candle. The clump of wax dropped to the floor with a thud. His gaze fell on the small calendar next to the inkpot. This depressing revelry would not come to an end until the feast of the Epiphany on the sixth of January.

He sighed; fourteen more days of hell.

The only way to salvage this miserable time of year would be to crush his enemies. Then the poinsettias would remind him of the blood of his adversaries. Sergeant Garcia's earlier protests suddenly rang in his ears. An idea took shape.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and here he detained a humble family in his jail. The hero of the pueblo, the masked menace Zorro, would certainly ride to the rescue of the downtrodden victims of the evil commandante or else risk losing the citizens' admiration.

Monastario smiled.

When the fox scales his wall tonight, the entire garrison—armed to the teeth—will be waiting to greet him. The capitán would get the greatest gift of all: his most cunning foe dead. The image of the masker's limp body swinging in a noose warmed his heart.

He pictured the scene on Christmas morning with the gallows gleaming and the soldiers standing at attention. On his command, the cuartel gates would open for him to parade his prisoner in front of the gathered crowd. The fox will be bagged like the vermin he is.

Monastario traced a figure eight in the air with his rapier and stroked his chin. Wait, where would he obtain a bag that size? He could wrap the bandit in a sheet. Yes, a sheet would work perfectly.

He might even tie a pretty red bow around the bundle. Ah, yes, he could see it now. Up on the podium, he would tug at the ends of the ribbon and the sheet would fall away. The crowd would gasp upon seeing their masked hero. Of course, Monastario ripped the cloth off his enemy's face immediately after trapping him, but he would allow the condemned man to don it once more for the effect.

Then he would delight in tightening the noose around the fox's neck.

The capitán reached for the door handle and called out for his sergeant. Garcia came running. He stomped his boots and saluted. "You summoned for me, Commandante?"

Monastario admired the sunlight glinting off the polished blade still in his hand. "Sí, Sergeant, I want every lancer on duty this evening." He returned it to its scabbard and rounded his desk.

"Every lancer?"

"Every lancer," Monastario reiterated. "No one is to go out on patrols. They are all to remain in the cuartel. In fact, they are all confined to the cuartel. That way, Zorro will not get whiff of our plans."

"Zorro?"

"Do you have a hearing problem I am unaware of, Sergeant?"

"No, Capitán, not that I am aware of." Garcia scratched his head. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you continually repeat everything I say!"

"Would that not indicate I have good hearing?" Garcia furrowed his brow and Monastario could almost detect the cogs moving, provided the buffoon had any in that empty skull. "If I did not hear what you said, I would ask you to repeat–"

"Shut up, baboso," Monastario fought a twitch, "I expect the fox to attempt a rescue of our prisoners. When he does, he will encounter each and every one of our troops. They are to be armed with sabers, pistols and rifles." He leaned forward, palms on the desk. "There is to be none of this 'do not move until the other man does' foolishness."

"Sí, mi Capitán."

"If the lancers cannot capture him, I want him dead. Instruct them to shoot if they get a clear shot." Monastario straightened, circled the desk again and stepped inches from his subordinate. "I am warning you, Sergeant, if Zorro escapes this time, you will take his place at the gallows."

Garcia wavered in position, swallowed hard and nodded. "Sí, mi Capitán."

"You are dismissed."

For the first time in many years, Capitán Monastario actually looked forward to Christmas. He glanced at the clock. A long night lay ahead, so he decided to take a short nap. He needed to be fresh and alert in order to snare a crafty fox. Monastario wandered to his quarters, shed his scabbard, rested his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

* * *

The crowd gathered in stunned disbelief. Only a few hushed whispers could be heard in the crisp morning air. His two most vocal adversaries stood front and center, their faces pale and mouths agape. Monastario's heart filled with glee. Don Alejandro de la Vega and Don Nacho Torres uttered a few weak objections, but the two arrogant hacendados were damned near speechless!

Now they would forever fear him.

Savoring the horrified expressions, his eyes fell on Alejandro's son. That insufferable peacock stayed put behind his father, his feet unsteady, looking as if he would faint at any second. The capitán briefly wondered if Diego had ever witnessed an execution before. If this was to be the young man's first, he would be richly rewarded with the very best.

Monastario removed the black hat and placed the noose around the fox's neck, making certain to give the thick rope an extra tug. Zorro grimaced and let out a low grunt. Monastario laughed as he replaced the hat. "You may have won a few battles, Señor Bandit, but I won the war."

This time, his foe did not offer a snappy retort.

The capitán stepped back and rested his hand on the handle that would open the trapdoor. He allowed the heavenly moment to linger, desiring to commit this exquisite sight to his mind. With a devilish grin and a boastful laugh, he pulled the lever…

Monastario's eyelids fluttered open. Darkness surrounded him. He sat up, rubbed his hands over his face and tried to make sense of his surroundings. Realizing he was on his bed in his quarters, he fell back to the pillow and silently cursed. Why did he always have to wake up just when his dreams got to the best part?

Wait, it was pitch-black. He only planned to take a short nap. His drapes were open and it was still daylight out when he laid down. Exactly how long had he been asleep?

Monastario swung his legs over the mattress. Perched on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, he sensed a presence in the room with him. He inhaled sharply. It would be just like Zorro to sneak inside the cuartel through the commandante's window.

He reached for the nightstand drawer where the matches were stored. His fingers barely brushed the wood when a flame ignited of its own accord. A warm, flickering glow illuminated his personal space. Monastario gulped and stared at the candelabra on the nightstand. Another flame sparked. Before his eyes, each of the six candles lit up.

He drew his shaking hand away. Not even Zorro could pull off such a feat!

"Feliz Navidad, Ensign."

Monastario's head whirled in the direction of the voice. He gasped and jumped deeper on the bed. Corporal Cordova, or more accurately a ghastly figure bearing a striking resemblance to his long deceased friend, leaned a forearm against the fireplace mantle while stoking the logs with the capitán's poker.

Only it wasn't Cordova. It couldn't be Cordova.

Monastario's breaths shortened. The intricate stonework remained visible through the eerie form's pallid skin and uniform. With added horror, he realized the hearth now crackled with a roaring fire. His head spun with dizziness. "It-it's impossible. Y-you're dead."

Cordova, or whatever _it_ was, laughed. "Actually, it is not impossible and, sí, I am very dead."

Monastario lowered his boots to the floor. "Am I dead, too? Is this hell?"

The amused laugh filled the room again. "You are very much alive, Ensign." Cordova returned the poker to its decorative stand and strolled to a chair in the corner. He sat down, crossing his legs so an ankle rested on his knee.

Monastario saw the color of the upholstery through the apparition. It unnerved him even more than seeing the stonework through the figure. "Then I must be dreaming."

"You are also very awake, my friend." Cordova picked up an orange from the neighboring table, tossed it high in the air and deftly caught it. With a longing glance, he returned it to the bowl. "I came all this way to visit you. Are you not going to wish me a Merry Christmas?"

"Christmas?" Monastario repeated.

"Sí, the clock stuck midnight a few minutes ago. Today is now Nochebuena."

"It is Christmas Eve?" Monastario's eyes widened and he bolted to his feet. "My prisoners!"

"That unfortunate family you ordered arrested?" Cordova inquired. "They are safely behind bars." At the capitán's suspicious glare, he waved to the door. "See for yourself."

Monastario furrowed his brow. This might be his only chance to escape this apparition. He grabbed his sheathed sword from the hook on the wall and crossed his office. Opening the door, cold air assailed his senses. It felt refreshing after the suffocating heat of the creepy, self-starting fires in his quarters.

His sight immediately aimed on the jail. Serrato and his family were asleep in a cell, just as Cordova said. Monastario shook his head. Cordova did not say anything. He was dead.

The soldiers were situated around the perimeter of the courtyard, fully armed. Wandering the grounds, he spied more lancers crouching in the shadows of the stables and on the porch outside the barracks. Additional sentries held positions on the roofs.

Monastario smiled. For once, Garcia carried out orders to perfection. He found the rotund lancer hidden behind a mound of hay. "Sergeant, any sign of Zorro?"

"No, mi Capitán." Garcia lumbered to his feet. "It has been quiet. Did you enjoy your nap?"

Monastario glared at him, but refrained from speaking the pointed retort on his tongue. He did not want to even think about his troubling nap. "Carry on, Sergeant, and keep sharp eyes."

After a few more rounds circling the cuartel, Monastario began toward his office. He halted. What if that thing was still in there? He stroked his goatee as a plan of action took shape. The capitán crooked his head toward the pile of hay. "Sergeant Garcia, come with me."

The two men climbed the steps to his quarters. Monastario held the door open and motioned for his subordinate to enter first. Garcia hesitated, chewed his bottom lip and finally went in with the help of a shove. The capitán strode to the bedroom door. "In here, Sergeant."

Garcia shrugged and obeyed the directive.

"What do you see?" Monastario inquired, remaining behind the portly soldier.

"Well, there is your bed, a fireplace, a bureau–"

Monastario pushed him aside. Staring at the empty room, he exhaled in relief. "That is all, Sergeant. Return to your position." Garcia shrugged again and departed when the capitán abruptly stopped him on the stairs. "What day is it?"

"It is Sunday, Christmas Eve," Garcia replied, looking as if his commandante were going loco.

"Good, I want to make sure you are on top of matters." Monastario shut the door on him. He lingered in the dark office next to the desk, staring at the orange glow emanating from his bedroom. With cautious steps, he inched closer to the threshold and peered in to make certain it was still empty. Satisfied, he let out another breath and hung the scabbard on the hook.

His eyes narrowed on the closed drapes. He distinctly remembered them being open when he went to sleep. Did this mean he was still in this strange delusion? The fireplace and candles were burning and he did not light them. But if this was still a delusion, how could Garcia see it?

"I sealed the drapes to be helpful. It would not do well to be seen talking to yourself."

Monastario jumped at the voice and crashed into the wall behind him. The ghost was less than an arm's length away from him. The capitán gasped, recognizing just how transparent Cordova was. Almost of its own accord, his hand reached out to touch this strange creature. He gulped when his fingers passed through the corporal's chest, meeting cool, breezy air.

Cordova giggled. "That tickles."

Monastario wrenched his hand back and shuddered.

"I am only teasing, Ensign. I did not feel a thing. But the look on your face was priceless."

"Stop calling me ensign." Monastario gritted his teeth, hating to be made a fool of. "I hold the rank of capitán now, along with the title Commandante of Los Angeles."

"Ah, that sounds more like the boastful young soldier I know," Cordova quipped. "I can see you were promoted. It may interest you to know death does not affect one's vision. I suppose you will always be an ensign to me, Enrique." He grinned and made a sweeping motion at the medals. "Apparently you like the uniform so much you sleep in it."

"I'd rather you go back to calling me ensign," Monastario retorted, ignoring the joke about his attire. Craving a stiff drink, he stepped around the ghostly shape and went straight to the decanter atop his bureau. He filled a glass with brandy and guzzled it down. Closing his eyes, he prayed that when he opened them, this nightmare would be over.

"I told you the prisoners were safe. Will you trust me now?"

Damn! Monastario refilled the glass and moved to the corner of the room. He started to sink into the chair Cordova occupied a few minutes prior, but caught himself, opting for the seat on the other side of the table instead. "What are you? What do you want from me?"

"To answer your first question, I am the ghost of Ramón Beltrán Cordova. I suppose you could also describe me as a spirit, a phantom or a specter. I will leave the choice to you."

"Gracias," Monastario quipped, raising the glass in a mock toast.

Cordova leaned on the edge of table—that is if ghosts could lean. "To answer your second question, I am here to help you, my friend."

Monastario observed this in amazement. How was it he did not fall through the table? The words finally registered and he looked up. "What do you mean you are here to help me? Unless you have a plan to capture the bandit el Zorro, I do not need any help."

Cordova's cheerful expression faded and Monastario resisted the urge to cower under the profound disappointment reflected in his friend's face. "I did not give my life in order for you to become a tyrant, Enrique."

"I am not a tyrant," Monastario barked, slamming the glass on the wooden surface. "Do not call me that." He bolted to his feet and paced the open space, running a flustered hand through his hair. Guilt wrapped around his insides, twisting and clawing at his stomach. For a fleeting second, he thought he might be sick.

Cordova folded his arms over his chest. "Then what would you call it?"

"The citizens of this pueblo, from the wealthiest of dons to the lowliest of peasants, have no respect for authority." The capitán curled his fingers into a fist. "They need to be ruled with an iron grip."

"There is a difference between a strict leader and a dictator. You are not just straddling that line, Enrique," Cordova said softly, "you look down on it from a mile away."

Monastario snickered. "Is that what this is about? You are going to show me the error of my ways?"

"That would imply there is still hope for you. Is there?"

A hollow laugh filled the bedroom. "You are the one who claims he is here to help me, Ramón. You must have the answer." Monastario lowered his weary body onto the edge of the bed.

"When I died…" Cordova trailed off. He wandered to the fireplace, retrieved the poker and stoked the logs, as if needing something to occupy his mind. Silence settled between them. Monastario listened to the crackling fire and watched the ghost, who appeared to be troubled. "I understand they named it the Battle of the Nive. Any man who says he was not terrified that day is lying," his tone grew faint, "I knew I was dying after I was shot."

Monastario shuddered at the memory.

"When the darkness lifted, I anticipated standing before the pearly gates where Saint Peter would judge me on my merits and permit me to enter heaven. Instead, I was alone on a grassy field. I walked and walked for miles until I finally encountered another person, only he could not see me. I waved and shouted, but he never acknowledged my presence."

Cordova rested the poker against the stone. "For seven years, I have roamed the earth, trapped between heaven and hell. In that time, I've seen places I could not even dream of. Me, the son of a poor farmer who could barely write my own name, let alone read!"

Monastario smiled at the ghost's childlike enthusiasm, reminded of the day they first crossed paths. The man was unbearable in his immaturity, but somehow became his only real friend in the army.

"There are tradeoffs, though," Cordova pointed to the table, "I cannot taste the flavor of an orange or feel the burn of brandy on my throat."

"Why are you telling me this?" Monastario asked.

"You are educated, eloquent and have the world at your feet. Nothing is out of reach for you, but you have chosen to abuse others. I died, yet I have lived more in these seven years than you have, Enrique. For all intents and purposes, you might as well have been killed."

Monastario fought a wave of nausea.

"I have often wondered why I am trapped in this limbo. When I decided to see what became of the young ensign I took under my wing, I realized I now have a purpose. That purpose is to help you."

Cordova glided to the bed, triggering a gasp from the officer. For the first time, Monastario truly studied Ramón's appearance as the dark eyes stared down on him. He had not aged a day and trimmed his facial hair in the same style moustache and goatee the capitán modeled his after. The wide shoulders and solid frame had not withered. His uniform looked freshly pressed and free of the blood Monastario could never forget when he thought about his friend.

"Today you will be visited by three of my fellow spirits," Cordova explained, a grin returning to his lips and merry sparks shining in his eyes. "They are the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Yet to Come. The last spirit is a rather somber creature, but you will find out for yourself soon enough. Do not let him get to you."

"More ghosts?" Monastario sighed. "Wonderful." Ramón patted his knee, sending a cold chill tracing the length of his body. He raised a dubious eyebrow. "Did you say creature?"

Cordova laughed. "You used to have a sense of humor, Enrique."

Monastario propped his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. One question burned on the tip of his tongue. It had burned for seven years. "Ramón, why did you save me?" When no answer followed, he looked up to find himself alone. "Ramón?"

The beleaguered capitán slowly straightened and set his sight on the glass abandoned on the table. When the last drops of brandy were ingested, he considered the empty space, wondering if he was actually alone. "Three more ghosts," he muttered, "Just great."

Monastario glanced at the clock. It was almost two o'clock in the morning. He grabbed his sword and joined his lancers outside, hoping the fox would strike. Perhaps these ghosts would not bother him while in the company of others. He only needed to bide his time until he finally woke from this bizarre nightmare.

He crouched on the stairs outside his office door, eyes alert, scanning the darkness for the black silhouette of his nemesis. Minutes ticked by and became hours. The first signs of dawn appeared on the horizon. Hues of pink colored the sky as the sun ascended higher in the heavens.

Disappointment filled Monastario when he realized the bandit did not take the bait. To soothe his grumbling stomach, he ate an early breakfast in the tavern, barely noticing the poinsettia on the adjacent table even as the barmaid carted the weed away. His eyelids growing heavy, he retreated to his quarters. Changing from his uniform into his nightclothes, he settled into bed for a peaceful rest, content the hallucination had reached its end.

After all, ghosts do not haunt in the daylight…


	2. Chapter 2

**Monastario's Haunted Christmas**

**Chapter 2  
****"The First of the Three Spirits"**

Capitán Monastario rolled over in bed, half burying his face in the pillow. Listening to the tranquil silence of his quarters, he opened one eye. Daylight snuck in around the edges of the closed drapes, casting the room in shadows. A soft groan escaped his lips and he wondered just how long he slept.

His gaze drifted to the candelabra. Memories of Cordova's ghost came flooding back, complete with the assertion three more spirits would visit him soon. What a bizarre dream he had!

The weary officer kicked the tangle of covers off his body and swung his legs over the side of the mattress. He bent forward, cupping his head in his hands, trying to coerce the last vestiges of sleep from his foggy mind. That must have been some wine he drank last night at the tavern.

As the fog lifted, Monastario could not shake the image of the deceased corporal standing before him. Grateful the likeness was not tinged with the blood of sacrifice, it still unnerved him. Even now, he shivered at the sensation of the cool, breezy air brushing against his skin as his fingers passed through the transparent form.

The more he pondered the mystery—whether it was real or a dream—the more befuddled he became. It would be easier not to ponder it at all; but to his frustration, the more he endeavored not to think, the more he thought.

His hands dropped to his knees. In the faint light of the bedroom, he could make out the shape of the fireplace poker leaning against the hearth's stonework. Trepidation clutched his chest. He did not lay it there; he always returned the implement to its proper place on the stand.

Monastario gulped. In his dream, Cordova set it there.

A wave of nausea washed over the capitán. He ran trembling fingers through his hair. It was a dream, right? Of course it was! There are no such things as ghosts. He reprimanded Sergeant Garcia as much when Zorro tricked the portly soldier during the fiasco with the Mad Monk.

It was the wine; it had to be the wine. Yes, exactly, the wine explained everything. He consumed too much last night. As a result, he did not remember leaving the poker against the stone. The alcohol also brought about the strange dream that haunted him.

With a logical explanation firm in his grasp, Monastario's nerves settled down and he felt much better. After breakfast, he would arrest the innkeeper for serving inferior refreshments and let the man stew in jail for an evening for causing the commandante such discomfort. He raised his arms to stretch his stiff shoulders when a candlewick suddenly ignited of its own accord.

Monastario jumped back deeper onto the bed. Not again!

Out of the corner of his vision, he detected a soft glow. He turned from the candle toward the hearth, prepared to see a blazing fire, only it remained dark. Instead, his eyes locked on an eerie ball of white light. The sphere grew larger and brighter, forcing him to shield his face with a forearm as he turned away from it.

"Feliz Navidad, Enrique."

The feminine voice startled him. When the luminosity surrounding him dimmed, and light no longer reflected off his bed sheets and pillows, Monastario peered over his shoulder. A breath caught in his throat. Standing in the middle of his room was the ghostly shape of a young woman.

She shimmered like fine pearls from head to toe. Her long, flowing gown glistened in hues of bluish-white with flecks of silver. Matching hair cascaded down her back in loose curls. Her skin held the sheen of alabaster. She also shared the same transparency as Cordova.

Only her eyes possessed any color. His own paled in comparison to the rich shade of blue.

With refined posture, raised chin and hands folded in front of her, she exuded confidence and presided over his quarters like a queen. He resisted the urge to kneel in her presence. Lowering his feet to the floor, he simply gaped at this heavenly figure, unable to coerce the myriad of questions from his tongue.

She reminded Monastario of an icicle: frozen, delicate and beautiful. And he feared she would melt away. For all her regal bearing, he detected a certain level of warmth beneath the frost. He was as besotted with this woman as he was afraid of her. If he still maintained control of his wits, he may even have found this reaction amusing.

"Are you an angel?" he asked, his anxious voice sounding peculiar to his ears.

She smiled, apparently flattered by his question. "No."

Of course not, he chastised himself. She did not have wings or wear a halo like an angel. And since when did he believe in angels? He was going crazy. It was the only rational explanation to this madness. Cordova's words echoed in his ears, as if reaffirming his insanity.

Monastario furrowed his brow. "Y-You are a ghost?"

"Sí, Enrique. I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, here to escort you on the first stage of your journey."

The musical lilt in her voice put him at ease. He did not even bristle when she called him by his given name. In fact, he was eager to hear his name on her lips once more. "First stage?" he repeated, rubbing the nape of his neck. "There are to be more of you, is that not right?"

"You will have two more visitors." She held out an open palm. "Please take my hand."

Monastario rose from the bed. Taking a step forward, he caught a glimpse of his attire. To his horror, he was still clad in his nightclothes! He felt his cheeks flush and scanned the room for his dressing gown. When he did not find it, he raced to the wardrobe, yanked if off a hanger and slipped into it while keeping hidden behind the door.

"Obviously, I am not properly outfitted for any journey," he said, fastening the robe closed at his waist. "Perhaps if you waited in my office while I change." Amused sparks shone in the blue depths of her eyes and for a brief minute his anger stirred at being ridiculed.

"Your clothes are sufficient," she replied, adding at his dubious gaze, "Trust me." She held out her palm again. "We are observers who cannot be seen. We are not allowed to interfere in events."

Monastario did as requested. As they touched, he felt the same cool breeze upon his skin as he did with Cordova. The spirit waved her other hand. The drapes parted and the glass panes pushed open. Sunlight flooded the room, making Monastario squint, yet the rays were no match for her unearthly glow.

While he still marveled at the trick with the window, they began lifting off the floor. Monastario gaped at the planks of wood inches beneath his feet and clutched her tighter. Dizziness swirled around him. They floated out the window. He feared his heart would pound out of his chest.

Monastario expected to see the brush and dirt of Los Angeles, but lush greenery stared up at him. Fields upon fields of grapes grew in perfect rows. The scent of rich, fertile soil tickled his nose. In the breeze, he also detected the distinctive, slightly sweet aroma of grape blossoms.

He knew these vineyards. They were a long way from California.

The spirit gazed at him. "You recognize this place."

"Sí," Monastario smiled, "It is Seville, where I was born and raised. It has been many years since I was last here. After my father…" he trailed off, the smile fading. "I have no reason to return."

"Yet it brought you a fleeting moment of happiness to see it again."

Monastario did not respond. He concentrated on observing the world floating below him. As he grew more comfortable with the odd sensation, he savored the experience of flying like a bird between the clouds. When they lowered to the ground, a pang of disappointment swept over him.

He studied the stone casita a few feet away, moving closer to run his fingers over the rough texture. An elderly caretaker used to reside here. As a child, Monastario often thought the man had to be a hundred years old. He was probably long dead now.

Laughter rang out and he stepped around the structure and spotted a group of young boys kicking a ball on open dirt. They looked strangely familiar. As he watched them play, his eyes narrowed.

"That sniveling, spineless weakling!" Monastario seethed, pointing at the little popinjay.

The spirit, who had followed the capitán, placed a hand on his arm. "Do you know him?"

"Of course, I know him," Monastario spat while shaking a fist. "I would know that gutless weasel at any age. He is Plácido de Barrientos. That fop got me into more trouble…"

"What did he do to earn this ire?" the spirit asked, her lilt traced with curiosity.

"We must have all been about thirteen or fourteen years old. Well, several of us boys decided to sneak away for a day and visit the tavern on the other side of the city. It had a certain risqué reputation and it most definitely lived up to it." Monastario grinned and stroked his goatee as he relived the memory. "We only got as far as peeking in the windows, but the señoritas had the shapeliest legs and wore low cut bodices that flaunted their bountiful cleavage…" He coughed to clear his throat when he realized to whom he was telling the story.

To his surprise, the spirit did not look offended.

"Suffice to say, Plácido ran home to his father and told him everything. Before long, everyone in our neighborhood knew what we had done." Monastario sighed. "My father found it amusing until my mother heard what transpired. She was mortified, so he decided I had to be punished." He absently rubbed his rear end. "I could barely sit down for a week. It is all Plácido's fault! The weasel could never keep his mouth shut."

The spirit giggled and he whirled his head in her direction. "It is not funny, Señorita." Monastario glared at his childhood nemesis, noting the same upturned nose and nasally voice that irked him all those years ago. "Oh, what I wouldn't give to lock him in my jail for a month and feed him nothing but slop from the garrison cook!"

She held out her hand and he took it again. The spirit guided him in a circle, as if leading a partner to a dance floor, and to his surprise, he now stood before a massive iron gate enclosing a hacienda.

"Home," he whispered.

The gates opened at her whim and they strolled in. Monastario absorbed it all with wide eyes, from the manicured lawns to the fountain on the main patio to the tall arched entryways. It had been so long since he last saw his family estate. As they neared the stables beyond the residence, he paused.

A younger version of himself sat astride a milky white horse. His instructor set up fresh hurdles for him to jump. Monastario glanced at the spirit, suddenly fitting the pieces together. First the young Plácido in the field and now the younger Enrique; she was taking him on a tour of his youth.

Monastario knew this day well. It was the afternoon of Christmas Eve and he was practicing one last time before he participated in the Navidad races, an annual tradition amongst the hacendados. His father competed against his friends while the children of the dons had their own contest.

Plácido was his chief rival and Enrique was eager to best the popinjay who got him into so much trouble a few months ago. Winning was always the best revenge. Together with his father's cherished stallion, he was confident of winning the trophy.

The capitán watched with pride as his adolescent self cleared each of the hurdles in flawless succession. His instructor even applauded his performance in a rare display of praise from the stern teacher. Tomorrow, Enrique would be the happiest boy in Spain when he outshined Plácido. Monastario still had the trophy tucked away in a trunk in his quarters.

As the lesson came to an end, Enrique dismounted and handed the reins to a stable hand. A girl came running from the house and threw her arms around his neck. "Oh, Quique, you will show that mean Plácido who is the best!" she exclaimed.

Enrique shrugged out of his sister's embrace and stared at her with a reproachful glare that reminded the capitán of their father. "How many times must I tell you not to call me that?"

Laurita lowered her head. "I am sorry, Enrique."

The boy's features soften and he grinned. "I will beat the snake."

"And then maybe his papá will tan his hide," she remarked, matching his grin.

"Let us not speak of tanning hides." Enrique rubbed his still tender backside.

Monastario could not prevent the laugh from escaping his lips as he watched this younger version of himself interacting with his sister. Laurita was so sweet and naïve; it was difficult for him to reconcile this little girl with the conniving woman out to snare a rich husband.

"Mamá wants you to take a bath when your lesson is over." Laurita bounced on her heels, her eyes glittering. "When you have freshened up, we will leave for the church."

Enrique nodded and proceeded to the hacienda with his sister on his heels.

Capitán Monastario watched them disappear behind the heavy door. As it shut, he traced his eyes over the intricate carvings, searching for the scratches he left there during his first experiences with a sword. He turned toward the spirit, only instead of standing on the grounds of his family home they were now in front of the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See.

He glanced up at the Giralda rising hundreds of feet in the air. The bell in the tower rang, the deep vibrations shaking his very core. Monastario pivoted as the street filled with people. Carriages came to a halt and occupants dressed in their very best stepped from the vehicles.

One familiar coach, drawn by a team of four prancing white horses, stopped next to the capitán. He swallowed hard when his father emerged. Don Adrián Sanchez Monastario, tall and debonair, the picture of refinement, held out a hand for his wife. He was the epitome of everything young Enrique strived to be. Doña Hortensia, dressed in a satin burgundy gown, stepped down, catching the eyes of all who looked in her direction. Enrique and Laurita followed their mother.

The family mingled with friends outside the church. Children scattered into groups to play games. Luminarias constructed of colorful paper lined the walkways. Bonfires burned in courtyards. Guitar music filled the air. As the midnight hour drew closer, Don Adrián led his family to their usual pew in the sanctuary.

After mass concluded, the parishioners chatted some more with their neighbors. The capitán's stomach clenched as he listened to his father make bets on the Navidad races with the other hacendados. When the last wagers were placed, the men gathered their wives and children, ready to return home to enjoy a Christmas feast with close friends and relatives.

The capitán watched his family climb into the coach, his heart filled with a deluge of conflicting emotions he long thought buried. When the vehicle disappeared into the dark horizon, he sank onto a bench outside the church and cupped his head in his hands.

The spirit joined him. "You did not always despise the holidays."

He kept his face buried and remained quiet, not trusting his voice.

"Why is this particular Christmas so special?" she inquired.

He crooked his head in her direction. "You are the one leading this journey; the one who chose this place. Are you honestly going to tell me you do not know its significance?"

The spirit placed a palm on his knee. Cool, breezy air filtered over him. "I do not know your past, nor do I know your future. Your heart guides me to these locations."

Gazing into the blue depths of her eyes, Monastario felt compelled to tell her, even though it went against every grain of his being. He sighed. "It was only a few months ago when the debacle with the tavern occurred. After our Christmas meal, we will go to bed for a few hours. Come afternoon, there will be horse races."

"Where you best Plácido de Barrientos," she concluded.

"Sí," he replied. "I won both the distance and the jumping events. Many of the boys were much older and more experienced. Most importantly, I soundly defeated Plácido. It was a joy to witness the weasel whine pitiful excuses to his father in that nasally voice."

"Surely, that is not the only reason this Christmas is special?"

"There are other reasons." Monastario brushed some invisible specks of dust from his robe. "My father beamed with pride, allowing me my first puff of a cigar. All of his friends laughed as I choked on the taste." He smiled at the memory of his father patting him on the back, reassuring him the coughing would pass. "I never thought I would touch another cigar again."

"You admire your father a great deal," she surmised.

Monastario ignored the comment. "I had started fencing lessons a few years prior. From the end of the first session, I desired a sword of my very own. My mother was set against it, fearing I would impale her furniture." He chuckled, recalling the time he did just that to the portrait of his grandfather. "My father said no, stating I would quickly outgrow any weapon he purchased. It did not stop me from begging him for one at every opportunity."

"Ah, so this was the year you received a sword to call your own."

"On Three Kings Day, my father presented me with a long box wrapped in shiny green paper. From the size, I knew exactly what it contained. Shredded pieces of paper went flying in all directions as I tore to get at it. My eyes must have been as big as saucers as I ran my fingers along the oiled oak case. As I unfastened the latches, my heart skipped a beat. There in the velvet lining was a rapier."

He did not tell her he still had the weapon and the case tucked in the bottom of his wardrobe.

"I picked it up and studied the hilt in my grasp before swinging it to test the weight. My mother told my father to take me outside. I lunged and sliced at the shrubs as if they were mortal enemies." He laughed as he remembered standing side-by-side with his father attacking the plants. What a sight they must have been!

The spirit removed her hand from his knee. "You had many more happy Christmases."

"Sí, there were more joyous holidays," he admitted.

She looked at him pensively. "Why did you stop going home for Christmas?"

Monastario jumped from the bench and paced to the wall of the church. His body trembled with anger. "There is no home to go back to," he spat, kicking at a pebble. "Did you not listen to those bets he made? I was in my third year of university studies when my father took ill. It was only then we learned the extent of his gambling. He wagered every last centavo."

Running shaking fingers through his hair, he inhaled sharply before slapping an open palm against the side of the building. "My mother was forced to sell our possessions to cover his debts; our home, land, furniture, livestock… everything. It was only later I learned she managed to sneak away a few pieces of jewelry which she sold to pay for my tuition." He stared at the spirit, his voice barely above a whisper. "That jewelry had been in her family for generations."

He leaned against the cold stone, staring at the stars above. "In the blink of an eye, I went from being the son of Don Adrián Sanchez Monastario, one of the most respected citizens of Seville, to being the son of Don Adrián Sanchez Monastario, pauper. Do you have any idea how I was treated?"

The spirit did not respond and he sank to the ground.

"I used to keep company with the sons of nobility; dukes, marquises and counts. They invited me to parties where I danced with their sisters. These were men I considered my friends. I was one of them. Or so I thought." A bitter laugh seeped from his lips. "They barely gave me a second look. I might as well have been a clump of dirt stuck to the soles of their shiny boots. I almost wanted them to ridicule me or to spit in my face; anything to prove I still existed."

He saw the glow nearing him from the corner of his vision. Monastario scrambled to his feet, trying to avoid her, but the spirit remained at his elbow. She materialized in front of him, bringing him to an abrupt halt. "It is how we persevere in the face of adversity that shows our true character," she said. "Have you considered this experience a blessing in disguise? Those men were never your friends to begin with if they turned on you so readily."

"Friends?" he snickered, the bitter laugh echoing in the night air again. "Do you want to know what that experience taught me? It taught me there are no such things as friends. The only tangible qualities that matter in life are wealth and power."

"Is that why you abuse your position of authority?"

"I abuse nothing of the kind. The citizens of the pueblo show no respect for my command," he snapped. "They leave me no choice but to rule with a strict hand." He spun on his heel to escape the spirit, but she was right there. He spun again, and again she was right in his face. "My father gambled away my inheritance; my legacy. I will reclaim it in any way I can!"

Monastario gasped as the admission left his mouth.

The spirit smiled. A fire seemed to burn beneath the icy exterior. "You do not believe in friends?"

The capitán breathed a sigh of relief that she did not press the matter of his slip. He held her steadfast gaze. "The notion of friendship is as much a fantasy as a fairy tale."

She waved her arms. The aura surrounding the apparition grew brighter. Monastario closed his eyes and shielded his face with his arm, just as he did when the spirit first appeared. When the bright light abated, he lowered his forearm. They were now inside, standing in the headquarters of the allied forces in Lisbon, Portugal.

The bustle of soldiers—British, Portuguese and Spanish—coming and going filled the large room. His eyes fell on the young ensign tasked to the desk, a set of double doors to his rear. Upon graduating the university, Cadet Monastario had been commissioned an ensign in His Majesty's Army and promptly assigned as an aide to the top Spanish generals.

Napoleon Bonaparte's advances into Spain forced them to retreat to Lisbon. Monastario took comfort in that his mother and sister took refuge with an aunt who married some Portuguese duke and were safe at a villa on the coast, far away from the bloodshed.

"It seems strange for a young, capable officer to be tethered to a desk." Her lilt held no trace of sarcasm and the capitán sensed she was genuinely curious. His earlier anger still fresh, he refused to submit to her inquiries. He did something quite uncharacteristic. He kept quiet.

Capitán Monastario watched the younger version of himself plow through piles of paperwork. His fellow graduates were leading troops into battle, earning accolades and promotions, yet he kept a quill in his hand instead of a sword. His mother, by way of her own family's connections, still held considerable sway with the higher echelons of society. He often wondered if she kept him secluded from the war.

On the lone occasion he had to ask her about it, as she and Laurita boarded the carriage to Nazaré, she skillfully deflected his questions, as only his mother could. Her avoidance of the issue assured him that she had a hand in sheltering her only son from the battlefield. This younger self was furious, yet the older and wiser capitán suddenly felt grateful for her involvement.

Monastario listened to the conversations around him, desperately trying to determine why the spirit chose this particular day. He was never in Lisbon during the Christmas season. When the doors parted behind the ensign and a lieutenant colonel ordered him inside, he got his answer.

The spirit took his hand and they passed through the sealed doors as if they were not even there. The capitán inspected his body, in awe at how they did that. His fingers did not pass through his chest as they did for Cordova. She pointed to the scene, urging him to watch.

Ensign Monastario stood at attention, but the capitán's eyes were on the corporal next to his younger self. One of the generals, Carrasquillo, circled his desk and scrutinized the junior officer. "I understand you are fluent in several languages, including English and French."

"Sí," the ensign replied.

Carrasquillo thumbed through a file at his side. "Your marks at the university are excellent and you are also well acquainted with the terrain of our home country." He looked to the ensign. "But you have not seen combat."

"No, sir," the ensign replied. "I have been placed in an administrative position."

"Why is that?"

Monastario watched his fearful younger self swallow the lump in his throat, not about to voice his suspicions about his mother's involvement. "It is where my superiors must feel I am most needed."

Carrasquillo grinned. "We have a diplomat in training." The other occupants in the room chuckled. "Well, Ensign Monastario, you are about to get a taste of the field." He held up a sealed document. "Our intelligence operatives have uncovered vital details regarding the movement of Marshal Marmont's troops. It is imperative this document be delivered to General Wellington—and only General Wellington."

Monastario nodded his understanding.

"We retook Badajoz, so Wellington should be in the vicinity." General Carrasquillo continued imparting orders, designating routes on a map and locations of known allies.

When he finished, he indicated the enlisted man to the ensign's side. "This is Corporal Cordova. He has seen combat and is acquainted with French tactics. He will accompany you on this mission. Both of you are to wear civilian attire and keep far off the main roads. The French have roadblocks everywhere; if you are caught, this letter is to be destroyed. The enemy must not read it. I cannot stress this point enough."

Monastario and Cordova saluted. "Sí, General," they replied in unison.

The two men received final parting instructions and exited the office. Cordova smiled. "It seems we will get to know each other, Ensign. I hope you have a sense of humor."

Monastario bristled at the corporal's insolent attitude. He spun on his heel and jabbed a finger in the man's chest. "Is that how you address your superiors?" Cordova stepped back. "I do not need your help in this matter, but I have orders to take you. Just make sure you don't get us killed."

Cordova raised an eyebrow. "Word amongst the troops is that the last two couriers were caught and made examples of by the French. It seems you have more to worry about than me."

The ensign fought a shudder. He also heard the stories, but refused to show this cheeky corporal any hint of apprehension. Without another word, he strode to his quarters, changed out of his uniform and packed his saddlebag.

"An interesting first meeting," the spirit observed.

Capitán Monastario ignored her. She took his hand and with a wave of her arm, they were now floating alongside the unlikely partners as they rode toward Badajoz. Monastario glanced over the terrain, realizing this was the third day on their mission. Cordova had tried to make conversation every waking hour and his younger self deflected each attempt.

"Let us just ride in peace, Corporal," the ensign finally said, tired of the chattering.

"It's Ramón."

"What?"

"We are supposed to be undercover." He motioned at their civilian clothing. "If any enemy troops overheard us calling each other by rank, it would defeat the purpose. Do you not agree?"

Ensign Monastario gritted his teeth. He should have thought of that detail. As much as he despised this corporal calling him by his given name, he relented. "Enrique."

"I had an uncle named Enrique," Ramón replied. He began telling an anecdote of his mother's brother and the young Monastario rolled his eyes. His older self chuckled.

When they reached Badajoz after five days, they learned Wellington and his troops were pushing toward Salamanca. So, they continued onward, keeping to old paths that weaved through tickets of trees to dodge any French patrols. When they came to a fork in the path, Enrique rode to the top of a small plateau and pulled a spyglass from the saddlebag. He rejoined Ramón.

"There is a town to the southeast. I glimpsed British and Spanish uniforms. We should collect fresh supplies and make some discreet inquiries," he advised. "You check out the local inn. Perhaps we can sleep in soft beds tonight instead of on the hard dirt. Be sure to sign a fake name."

"That might be difficult," Ramón replied.

"Why is that?"

"I cannot read or write," the corporal answered simply.

"You cannot read?" Enrique repeated. "What the hell kind of soldier are you?" He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Never mind, I will check out the inn. Let's go."

Capitán Monastario felt the spirit's eyes aimed upon him as he watched the scene play out. He fondly remembered the subsequent nights camped under the stars, teaching the corporal the basics of the alphabet. As those reminisces filled his mind, the view changed before him.

He and the spirit were now standing near a small fire. The flames flickered in the darkness and stars twinkled in the clear sky above. Enrique propped his back against a fallen log while Ramón fought with his bedroll. The ensign observed his partner. "How is it you cannot read?"

"Ah, so you wish to have a conversation now? Not all of us are born as noble as you."

Enrique snickered. "We should get one fact clear. I have not a centavo to my name."

Ramón stopped with the task and stared at the ensign. "It seems we have something in common."

"You did not answer my question." The corporal remained silent, so Enrique opted for a new tactic. "You have been talking my ear off for more than a week. Is this all I had to ask to shut you up?"

Ramón laughed and settled into his bed. "My parents were farmers in a small pueblo to the north. They could not read or write. The nearest school was over twenty miles." He folded his arms over his chest. "I know horses, cattle and mules, just as I know the seasons and when to plant. I can count out money to pay for goods. It is enough."

"Can you write your name?"

"I can make my mark."

A sad smile formed on Enrique's lips. His fingers were tracing lines and circles in the soft dirt when an idea struck. He looked to his side and found a stick. With the new implement, he wrote a name onto the ground.

Ramón laughed. "Do not go crazy on me, mi amigo. What are you doing?"

"This is your name," Enrique explained. "Ramón," he pointed to each letter, pronouncing it in turn, "R-a-m-ó-n." He offered the stick to the corporal. "You give it try."

He hesitated a moment before accepting it and did his best to copy the letters.

Enrique crouched next to the scribble, resting his elbows on his knees. "Not bad for a first attempt. Do it again." He watched as Ramón repeated the action. "I could have you reading before long."

The corporal's head snapped in his direction. His eyes shone with hope. "Do you mean that?"

"Of course," Enrique replied. He took back the stick and began going over the alphabet with Ramón. They continued with the lessons each night until they caught up with Wellington. Capitán Monastario remembered how they switched to a quill, ink and parchment when they were both reassigned to General Álava's division. Ramón's writing was shaky at first, but quickly improved.

The spirit latched onto the capitán's arm. "That is a nice thing you did for him."

"It was nothing." Monastario shifted his weight from foot to foot and tugged his shirt collar. "He was my fr–" The word died on his lips and his eyes widened in realization.

"He was your what?" she prodded.

Monastario cleared the lump from his throat and gazed at the scene by the fire. "He was my friend," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Ramón was my friend."

She released her grasp on his arm and stared him in the eyes. "But you said it yourself: 'The notion of friendship is as much a fantasy as a fairy tale.' So how is that possible?"

Monastario stormed away from her, but she suddenly appeared ahead of him. Again, he tried to escape her presence, and again, she was there at every turn. He threw his hands up in frustration and resisted the urge to scream at the heavens. Restraining his temper, he met her gaze. "I was wrong. Are you happy?"

"Corporal Cordova was so much your friend that when your sweetheart invited you to a soiree, you brought him as your guest." With a flourish, the spirit waved her arm and transported them to a grand ballroom. Orchestra music laced the air and couples crowded the dance floor.

Monastario gasped. He remembered this event like it was yesterday.

Stationed at the allied headquarters in Santander, he was able to rekindle his romance with Amelia Solana, whose family took refuge in the northern part of Spain after Napoleon Bonaparte's men destroyed their home in Seville. When December approached, she sent him an invitation to her father's birthday celebration. The love-struck ensign managed to finagle a three-day pass from his superiors and brought Ramón with him.

The capitán's heart beat faster at the notion of seeing his beautiful Amelita once more. As he scanned the ballroom for her, his heart dropped when he realized she had not yet made her entrance. Would he get to see her before the spirit ferried him off somewhere else?

Ramón's astonishment provided a distraction. "Madre de Dios, look at this place," he gaped, nudging Enrique in the ribs. Intricate tapestries hung from the wall. The revelers were dressed in the finest silks. Some clutched crystal goblets brimming with refreshments. "We are fighting a war and these aristocrats are not even aware of it."

Enrique chuckled. "Just enjoy the food and drink."

"I am surprised they aren't wearing powdered wigs." A server with a tray of hors d'oeuvres passed them by. Ramón's mouth watered. "How am I supposed to eat when the waiters do not stop?"

"Powdered wigs went out of fashion years ago." Enrique arched an eyebrow at his friend. "Step up to them and they will slow. Take whatever you want from the tray." He barely finished speaking when the corporal chased off after a server.

Ramón returned balancing a handful of appetizers. "These are delicious," he mumbled with a full mouth. "Do you want one?" Enrique shook his head and Ramón set out after a tray with wine.

The music came to an abrupt halt and the Solana family made a fashionably late entrance to their own gala. Both Monastario and his younger self stared at the angel dressed in dark violet. Hair the color of golden honey was pinned in the latest style at the nape of her neck. He could see her green eyes glimmering like flawless gemstones even from the other side of the room.

"Ah, that must be the Señorita Amelia I've heard so much about," Ramón whispered. "Who is that stuffy old man next to her? He walks like his trousers are two sizes too small."

Enrique snorted. "That old coot may be my future father-in-law one day." Solano waddled further into the room. "As cheap as he is, he probably put on a few pounds and refused to buy new clothes."

"So, when are you going to ask him for his daughter's hand?"

"It's not that simple," Enrique sighed. "If my father had not gambled our fortune away, we would likely already be married. Convincing him I am good enough for her now won't be easy."

"There is no better time than now, my friend." Ramón emptied the last drops of wine and searched for another waiter. "You look dashing in that officer's uniform, we have Napoleon on the run and her father should be in a good mood on his birthday. Ask him tonight."

"Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Have you ever asked for a woman's hand in marriage?"

"No."

"Exactly my point," Enrique stated. "I will handle this affair on my own."

Ramón shrugged. "Have it your way." His sight took aim on a tray of red wine and he set off after the server. "Hey, Señor, wait up. I'm thirsty."

Capitán Monastario watched his younger self approach Amelia to ask her for a dance. The ensign guided her to the middle of the ballroom and led her in the waltz. He closed his eyes and remembered the sensation of holding her close, the feel of her slender waist in his arms and the intoxicating bouquet of her perfume.

The spirit smiled. "You wisely listened to the corporal."

Shaken from his reverie, his eyes shot open. They were now engaged in a lively bolero. Soon, the evening would draw to a close. As the music concluded, Amelita led her fiancé to a quiet corner. "Next week is the start of the Christmas season. I wish for you to join us during the feast of the Immaculate Conception. Please tell me you can sneak away, my love."

Enrique raised her hand to his lips where he kissed each of her fingers. "I want nothing more than to spend this Christmas and every Christmas with you. I will do my best to be here."

"We can go riding together that afternoon." She blushed at the attention he bestowed on her and giggled as the whiskers above his lip tickled her skin. "Since when did you decide to grow a moustache and beard?" She caressed his cheek. "I miss the baby-smooth face."

"Ramón convinced me I would look more distinguished. Do I?"

"Hmm, I suppose," she teased, "but you have always been handsome to me."

Capitán Monastario choked back the tears and turned away from the romantic scene. He rubbed his eyes and inhaled deep breaths to calm his trembling body. The spirit placed a cool hand under his chin, compelling him to peer into her blue depths.

"We never went on that ride," his lip quavered, "This was the last time I saw her."

"And one of the reasons you began to hate the holidays," she concluded. "I am sorry, Enrique."

He raised his head, startled by the kindness, when a volley of gunfire shattered the stillness. The capitán instinctively dove for cover and encountered slippery mud. He surveyed the scene, his breathing rapid. They were on the banks of the Nive River in France, a battle raging round them.

Thick clouds cloaked the sky. Heavy rain fell pelted the battlefield; during pauses in the downpours, misty haze hovered around the soldiers. Ensign Monastario kept low on the ground, Cordova close to his right, both peeking over edge of the trench only to return fire. He was cold, wet and caked in mud.

The capitán shivered, realizing this was the last day of the conflict, the thirteenth of December. His limbs trembled from where he crouched, terrified of what he would witness.

"Take me away from here," he pleaded with the spirit. The words barely left his mouth when the private who reloaded the weapons behind the young ensign was struck down. Shaken by the grizzly sight, Cordova shoved a bag of musket balls in his hands and pointed to the barrel of gunpowder protected from the rain.

"Do not let it get wet!" Ramón shouted over the commotion.

The ensign struggled to reload and they continued firing on the enemy for hours. As the sounds of gunshots lessened, hope sprang amongst the soldiers that they were winning. Whispers of a French retreat spread. The detachment inched forward.

More volleys exchanged. He fired his weapon, taking down a guard. That instance was when Ensign Monastario saw the Frenchman aiming a musket at him. Enrique swallowed, unable to defend himself. As the loud boom echoed in his ears, he closed his eyes, waiting for death to claim him. Only it was not a bullet that slammed him to the ground.

The wind knocked from his lungs, Enrique opened his eyes and saw Cordova on top of him. He pushed the corporal off and gasped at the sight of blood seeping from his friend's chest.

"Madre de Dios," he whispered, pressing his hands to the wound to stem the flow of blood.

Ramón coughed and his eyes turned glassy. Enrique barely registered someone kneeling beside them reciting last rites. He was helpless as his friend slipped away.

Capitán Monastario turned away from the scene and all went silent. He sank onto a log on the now empty grass field, his body trembling uncontrollably. "We were not even supposed to be there. I was assigned to administrative duty and got Ramón transferred to work with me."

He sniffed back tears. "Wellington sent most of the Spanish troops back home, with the exception of Pablo Morillo's division. We were not even consigned over to his unit, yet we received orders to march into France. To this day, I don't know how we ended up there."

The spirit joined him on the log and placed her palm on his knee.

"I had never engaged in battle. Ramón promised he would look out for me." Monastario ran his hands over his face, struggling to regain his self-control. "I had seen men die before. As a boy, one of our workers was trampled by a horse. There were always duels at the university and in the army. Most were to first blood, but a few were to the death. Not once did I ever fear picking up a sword or dying by the blade."

"But you were afraid during this combat," the spirit prodded.

Monastario nodded. "Ramón was right. Any man who says he was not afraid on this day is lying. War is not noble; it is barbaric."

She took his hand and led him on a walk through the grass. There was something peaceful about the eerie tranquility; no birds sang, no crickets chirped, not even a breeze ruffled the blades of grass. A tavern appeared before them. Monastario halted.

"No, I refuse to go inside."

He tried to free himself of her vise-like grip, but she dragged him through the closed door. Years of grime on the windows kept the inside dark, despite the daylight outside. Where the Los Angeles tavern smelled of delicious food and fine cigars, this dank sala held the stench of cheap alcohol and even cheaper cigars.

He spotted his younger self sitting alone at a table tucked in the corner. Ensign Monastario sipped the English beer, repulsed by the bitter taste, but coercing it down his throat as punishment. He did not even take notice of the messenger calling out his name. Another soldier pointed to the ensign drowning his sorrows in the corner.

A sharp pain pierced the capitán's heart as he watched his reaction. The ensign broke the seal and began reading. He buried his head in his folded arms as sobs racked his body.

Capitán Monastario struggled to breathe. "I can't do this." He ran to the door, but he could not grasp the handle to open it. He tried to walk through it, but without the spirit's assistance, he was trapped. "Let me out of here," he begged, pounding a fist on the wood.

The door swung open and he raced into the fresh air.

"You mourned your friend by drinking until you could feel nothing."

Monastario spun to face the spirit. "What else should I have done?" he snapped. "Do you want to hear something amusing? I spent two weeks away from my post, but did not receive even the slightest reprimand. Each of my superiors thought I was with the other." A bitter laugh resounded. "Hell, I even got promoted to lieutenant come January."

"What was in the letter?"

"No, I am done with this journey of yours."

She grabbed his shoulders. "Tell me."

Tears streamed down his cheeks. "That was a message from Amelita's father, informing me she had been killed." He pushed her away and, to his surprise, she let go. Monastario fled her presence, only slowing to catch his breath. As he leaned against a tree, the spirit materialized again.

"We were supposed to go riding together on the eight of December, only I was called away to that damned battle." He didn't know why he was divulging this. "I was not there, so she went by herself. Her horse returned to the stable without a rider, so everyone went in search of her."

Monastario felt his insides churning. "She was shot. Some say a French soldier still in the area fired the bullet; others presumed it was an accident, perhaps an errant discharge by a hunter. My Amelita died and I was not there for her. If I had been there, she would still be alive."

"You cannot know that for certain."

"I am a soldier, trained to be alert. I would have realized something was amiss." The sun peeked out from behind the clouds and the rhythmic sound of hoof beats drew his attention. Monastario turned; his heart caught in his throat.

His beautiful Amelita sat astride a gray mare, her golden locks working loose of the pins and cascading down her back. A smile formed on his lips. It always irked her father when she refused to ride sidesaddle. She was as radiant as ever.

A single shot reverberated, chilling Monastario to the bone.

Amelia fell from the horse.

"No!" He ran to his fiancée, dropping to his knees next to her. Enrique tried to stop the bleeding, but his hands passed through her. He tried to hold her, to cradle his beloved in his arms, but he could not pick her up. "Why are you doing this to me?" he shouted at the spirit. "Why must you torture me?"

He tried to touch his Amelita again, but she vanished. Monastario screamed at the heavens.

"We are prohibited from interfering with events in the past." The spirit knelt before the capitán, raising his chin. "You could not have saved her."

"No," he shook his head, "No, you are wrong." He stared into her blue depths. "Do you want to know why I hate the holidays? This is why! During the Christmas of 1813, I buried my friend and put flowers on my fiancée's grave." His anger grew. "None of this would have happened if my father had not gambled away our fortune. Amelita and I would have married years ago and she would not have been riding on that field that day."

"You have never properly grieved for the loss of your loved ones. Instead, you cling to misguided rage." The spirit frowned. "A man who cannot come to terms with his past has no future."

"A riddle?" Monastario snickered. "What in the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I cannot answer that. When you figure it out, you will be a better man for it."

His fingers curled into fists at his sides and he closed his eyes to inhale a prolonged breath to soothe his enraged temper. Monastario had never struck a woman, but he was sorely tempted to strike this spirit. When he opened his lids, she was gone and he was on his knees in his bedroom.

He glanced around, making certain he was truly alone, but made no move from his position on the floor. Monastario felt strangely empty and overwhelmed all at once. A part of him wanted to flee his quarters for the company of his troops, while another part of him wanted to hide away. Deep down, he feared they would see right through him; see his pain.

The capitán managed to get to his feet and stumbled toward the brandy on the bureau. With both a decanter and glass in his grasp, he sank back to the floor. His eyes drifted to the wardrobe. After filling the glass and taking a gulp, he crawled to the doors and opened them. He extracted the oiled oak case from the bottom.

Monastario unlatched the clasps, opened the lid and ran a finger along the steel of the rapier. He picked it up and felt the weight in his hand, just as he did on Three Kings Day all those many years ago. Setting the sword aside, he pulled the velvet lining away from the edge of the box and found the lacy handkerchief tucked safely away.

Clutching the only remnant he had of his Amelita, Enrique Sanchez Monastario raised the glass to his lips and drank himself to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Monastario's Haunted Christmas**

**Chapter 3  
"****The Second of the Three Spirits"**

As Capitán Monastario slowly stirred from the last vestiges of a troubled sleep, he comprehended one thing for certain. His body ached more than it had in a long time. He shifted to get more comfortable when his chin dropped forward. A dull pain raced the length of his back and a groan escaped his lips.

Eyelids fluttering open, he struggled to piece together his surroundings. Where was he? Sunlight filtered in through the open window, forcing him to blink in rapid succession to adjust to the brightness. Everything appeared so big. The bureau and wardrobe loomed over him. He would need to climb to get in the chairs by the table. Did he shrink in height overnight?

Monastario reached up to rub his weary eyes, sensing the start of a headache. His stiff neck and shoulders protested the movement and he groaned again. Growing more alert, he surveyed the scene with his wits intact. As near as he could tell, he sat on the floor in his quarters, propped alongside the bed with his legs extended in front of him and his head resting against the mattress.

"What in the hell happened last night?"

He drew his knees closer and glanced down at his attire. Well, he managed to get out of his uniform and into his nightclothes and robe. That must count for something.

Monastario began massaging the knots from his neck. While his fingers kneaded the taut muscles, he inhaled a deep breath and examined the items scattered on the floor around him. A decanter of brandy and an empty glass tilted on its side were to his left. The oiled oak case he usually kept hidden in the bottom of his wardrobe sat in the middle of the room with the lid open.

His sight traced to the sword at his right. The capitán's heart clenched when he noticed the feminine handkerchief under the hilt. A trembling hand reached for the lacy piece of silk and all of the memories from last night flooded over him like a heavy surge battering the coastline.

Monastario struggled to breathe as if he were drowning. This was not happening.

Ghosts were not haunting him!

He pulled himself up onto the edge of the bed. Needing to focus on something—anything—he gazed at the timepiece on the mantle. Three o'clock? His mind raced with possibilities.

It had to be three in the afternoon, since it would still be dark at that hour of the morning. Did he really sleep all night and half of the day? It explained the depth of the nightmare, unless what seemed to be a lengthy delirium actually lasted no more than a few minutes. He only planned to take a brief nap so he could keep sharp watch on his prisoners.

His prisoners!

He bolted to his feet, ignoring the throbbing pain, and darted to the office door. The guard stationed outside his quarters jumped as it swung open. Monastario halted at the top of the stairs, aiming eyes directly on the jail. He sighed in relief when he spotted the Serrato family secured in a cell. At least something made sense. He turned to the private. "What is today?"

"Uh, it is Sunday, Capitán."

"Sunday?" Monastario repeated, rubbing the nape of his neck. Sergeant Garcia gave the same answer when he checked on his prisoners in the early morning hours, right after Cordova… No, no, no, it was not possible. Private Ortega had to be mistaken. "What is the date?" he inquired with a slight desperation to his voice.

"T-The date?" Ortega stammered. "It is the twenty-fourth of December."

"It cannot be," he whispered. He narrowed his brow at the lancer and touched the man's chest, gasping when his hand did not pass through the blue fabric. "Is this real? Am I real to you?"

Ortega gulped and inched backwards, shooting nervous glances toward the courtyard as if pleading for help from his fellow soldiers. "S-Sí, you are very real to me, Capitán."

The fear etched into Ortega's young face was so different from anything Monastario had seen before that it momentarily left him thunderstruck. Reaffirming control over his emotions, and prepared to demand answers for the private's odd behavior, a breeze ruffling his robe proved a distraction. To his horror, he realized he was standing outside barefoot and clad in his nightclothes.

Monastario's cheeks flushed in a mix of anger and embarrassment. "Not one word, Private, or you will be court-martialed!" He fled to the refuge of his office, slamming the door shut on the guard.

"I am going mad," he muttered to himself.

Striding toward his bedroom, he paused at the threshold. So far, the ghosts remained limited to that precise area. They had yet to pester him in his office. Monastario clasped his hands behind his back and paced the open space to the side of his desk. He could not very well avoid his bedroom forever. If rumors like that spread, those haughty dons would eat him alive for breakfast!

Monastario squared his shoulders, disregarding the ache, and marched into his room. As he passed the mirror on the wall, he caught sight of his reflection. Wild blue eyes stared back at him and disheveled hair stuck out in a myriad of directions. "I even look mad," he said aloud, leaning in for a closer inspection. "No wonder Ortega panicked."

He exhaled into a cupped hand to smell his breath. It was not the freshest, but at least it did not reek of alcohol. He could easily picture Alejandro de la Vega and Nacho Torres complaining to the governor about the drunken commandante. The two senile old fools may object to his command, but he is always sober when he carries out his alleged abuses.

Monastario filled the washbasin with water from the nearby pitcher and splashed his face. The cool liquid felt refreshing against his fevered skin. After a few more splashes, he combed his unruly hair into its usual tidy appearance. He examined his cheeks and chin more closely, but opted to skip shaving. With his luck today, he would end up slicing his throat.

When the capitán finished his personal grooming, he changed into a fresh uniform. He pulled on his boots and pinned his medals to his chest. Moving to the mirror, he reassessed his appearance.

A confident and authoritative figure stared back at him. For the first time since waking, Monastario felt like his normal self. He smiled, admiring his handsome features. Perhaps later in the day, he would have Garcia draw him a bath to wash away the last remnants of this hallucination.

His stomach grumbled and he realized he had not eaten since yesterday—or was it this morning? The thought of a large meal made him queasy, so he opted for some fruit. As he reached for the orange in the bowl, his hand paused. Images of Ramón tossing it in the air and catching it flashed before his eyes. The capitán selected an apple instead.

After the last bite was eaten, he dropped the core into the empty glass on the table. He glanced at the mess on the floor and began tidying his room. It was a task typically assigned to his men, but under the circumstances, he decided to do it himself. Besides, the items were too personal in nature for his lancers to be touching with their grubby fingers.

Monastario picked up the glass from the floor and the decanter of brandy. Holding the bottle up to the window, he recognized he could not have consumed more than two or three drinks. So why did he feel like he had a hangover? Shaking his head, he returned them to the bureau.

Next, he went to the sword. Monastario grasped the hilt with a gentle touch and admired the sunlight shimmering off the fine Toledo blade. He outgrew the weapon long ago, but refused to discard it. So many fond memories were attached to the rapier; they may as well have been engraved into the steel. Much to his sorrow, it was the only possession he had to remind him of his father.

His father…

More emotions he did not want to contend with swelled around him. He tried to shove them away. In doing so, it hit him just how much he missed his father. Despite all the anger he aimed at his papá over the years, he longed to hear the strong voice and feel the comforting hand on his shoulder one more time. He wanted them to stand side-by-side and slice at the shrubs again.

Monastario gently placed the sword in the velvet lining. Before he closed the lid, his eyes scanned the area for the handkerchief. He found it on top of the bed where he dropped it earlier. Raising the delicate silk to his face, he breathed in deeply, hoping for one last whiff of Amelita's perfume, but his nose met only the smell of dust.

A tear formed his eye and he rubbed it away. Monastario tucked the handkerchief into the lining of the case and closed the lid. He ran his fingers over the smooth grain, secured the latches and hid it away in the wardrobe.

Alone and with nothing to keep him occupied, he sank onto the mattress and cupped his head in his hands. "What is happening to me?" he whispered to the silence.

Monastario needed to escape the confining walls. Grabbing another apple from the bowl, he strode from the office. Ortega straightened and saluted. The capitán nodded. "At ease, Private."

He remained at the top of the steps, savoring the fresh air and warm sun on his face, before wandering the length of the courtyard. Lancers stood at attention as he neared. Ah, yes, he relished this feeling of dominance. Until the distinctive baritone voice shattered his inner peace.

"Capitán, you are awake." Sergeant Garcia rubbed his ample belly as he approached.

Cookie crumbs still stuck to the stubble-covered chin. Monastario rolled his eyes. Did the man reside at the tavern? When Garcia promptly observed the commandante must be feeling better, he ordered the portly soldier to lead a late afternoon patrol of the countryside. The capitán had no desire to listen to the baboso's stupid remarks about his sleeping habits, nor did he have the patience to deal with it at the moment.

Once the stables emptied out, he went to his white mare. Hero neighed and nudged him in the chest as he rubbed her neck. He laughed when she stole the last of his apple. She cost him a large chunk of his savings, but she was worth every centavo. No matter what the citizens of the pueblo said, his Hero was every bit as good as—if not better than—the fox's stallion.

"Capitán!"

Monastario turned to the source of the familiar intonation. Licenciado Pina hollered from the gate where the sentries blocked him. He often wondered if the lawyer knew he looked like an undertaker in that black coat with the long tails. The capitán signaled for them to allow Pina entrance into the cuartel.

"We need to talk," Pina stated, not hiding his anxiousness as he glanced at the jail.

Monastario motioned to his quarters. "My office."

As they passed Ortega, the capitán instructed the private to stand guard elsewhere for an added level of privacy. When they were inside, Pina began pacing the floor while Monastario perched on the edge of his desk and folded his arms over his chest.

"Do you not permit my visits anymore?" Pina snapped. Monastario arched an eyebrow in amusement; the timid fellow displayed a rare feisty mood. "I have been trying to convene with you since yesterday afternoon. Your soldiers obstructed me at every juncture."

"I have been otherwise occupied." Monastario smirked. Hmm, perhaps he underestimated Garcia. He might make for a decent soldier yet. "Calm down, Tomás. What is bothering you?"

"That family you arrested is bothering me." Pina continued pacing as he fidgeted with his hands. "Right now, the citizens of this pueblo are busy with Christmas preparations, but word is spreading," he paused at the window, "Do you have any idea what Don Alejandro and Don Nacho will do when they learn you imprisoned an entire family, including small children?"

"That family broke the law," Monastario clarified. "Let de la Vega and Torres cry all they want. If they give you any trouble, send them to me."

"Must I remind you that I live with these people? You can only push them so far." Pina turned to face the capitán with wide eyes. "What do you plan to do with the Serratos?"

"I would issue a fine, but considering they cannot even afford a room at the inn, I would be burdened with them for the rest of their lives." Monastario chuckled, taking pleasure in the renewed feeling of power and control. "I will let them spend the holiday in a cell as an example to other riffraff."

Pina's brow knitted in consternation. "And then what?"

"The day after tomorrow, my lancers will escort them from the district with a warning. They have already tried my patience once. If they return, I shall not be so kindhearted."

"I do not like it, Enrique."

Monastario straightened and rested a palm on the lawyer's shoulder. "There is nothing to worry about, Tomás. You do not even have to draw up any papers. Go to the tavern and enjoy yourself. Put it on my account."

"Sí, maybe I will do that," Pina replied. Monastario led him to the door, where he hesitated. "What about Zorro? Surely he will attempt to free the Serratos?"

"I am counting on it." Monastario reached for the knob. "Each and every one of my men was on duty last night, and will be again tonight, but it seems our fox is too busy to assist a poor family. The most appealing part of this situation is that either way, I win."

"How do you figure that?"

"If Zorro comes over the cuartel wall this evening, I will capture him. We will have a merry hanging for Christmas. If he fails to mount a rescue, he will lose the respect of other peasants." The capitán opened the door. "It will not be long before one of his disillusioned accomplices turns on him."

Pina shook his head and departed without another word. Stroking his goatee with a content smile, Monastario watched him vanish beyond the gates and resumed his duties. As he took a seat in his favorite chair and traced a finger over the intricate carvings on the armrest, he finally felt like himself again. The hallucinations were over with at last.

A booming laugh reverberated behind him.

"What the…" Monastario muttered, twisting in the chair.

The laugh echoed once more, rattling the pictures hanging on the walls. The offending noise seemed to be originating from his bedroom. Not to mention it sounded eerily like Sergeant Garcia. Monastario rose to his feet and narrowed his eyes. That baboso was supposed to be leading a patrol. What was he doing back so soon—and in the commandante's quarters no less!

With a low growl emanating from his throat, the capitán barged through the threshold. "Garcia!" Monastario stopped dead in his tracks at the sight that greeted him.

A ghost of massive proportions, feasting on a leg of lamb, occupied the middle of the room, supplemented with an oversize leather couch to support his bulky frame. Platters upon platters of food covered every inch of open space, from the bureau to the table to the bed. The aromas assaulting the officer's overwrought senses triggered a wave of nausea.

"It is good of you to join me, Capitán."

The plump belly, round face and stubble-covered cheeks bore a striking resemblance to Garcia. Well, that was if the sergeant ever dressed in heavy velvet robes edged with white fur and wore laurel wreaths atop his head. Most of all, the spirit reminded Monastario of an eccentric mix between a portrait of King Henry VIII of England and a Greek statue.

The capitán gaped at the apparition. Upon closer inspection, food stains marred the front of the robes. It was the complete opposite of the Ghost of Christmas Past. Whereas she was elegant and beautiful, this specter was slovenly and uncouth.

King Henry's Spanish twin lumbered to an upright stance and the couch vanished. His sheer size dwarfed even that of Garcia. He was over a foot taller than Monastario and his girth exceeded that of three sergeants lined up side-by-side.

A small part of the capitán wanted to laugh at the absurdity. This spirit made Demetrio Lopez Garcia look petite in comparison! "Do not tell me you are another one of my… visitors."

"Sí, I am the Ghost of Christmas Present." Sporting a forlorn expression and training a final yearning glance on the cuisine, he heaved a sigh and snapped his fingers. The leg of lamb in his grasp disappeared, along with the platters. "Let us complete the next step of your journey so I may continue with my banquet." The spirit extended a chubby hand.

"Oh, no," Monastario balked, waving him off. "I am not holding hands with you."

The spirit pursed his lips together and scratched his head. Monastario had a sudden urge of déjà vu. "Very well, Capitán, then clutch my robe instead."

Monastario hesitated for a long moment before relenting. If humoring the scruffy spirit would bring about an end to this madness, he would play along with it for now. It might even be to his advantage. Perhaps they would take a tour of the pueblo where he could ascertain valuable intelligence on his enemies. He reached out and grasped the offered sleeve. They exited the building by passing through the walls.

As they descended the stairs outside the office, his eyes fell on Private Sanchez standing guard at the door. The lancer failed to straighten and salute. He swallowed the retort on his tongue upon realizing the private could not see him. Monastario surveyed the courtyard. What happened to Ortega?

Arching a curious eyebrow at his companion, the capitán wondered why they did not soar high in the clouds. He chose not to voice the question; the spirit's waddle proved answer enough. Of course, it was his luck to get a ghost too fat to fly.

The spirit escorted him across the plaza toward the tavern. More growls sounded from the capitán's throat as he listened to the exchange of merry greetings and the miserable carolers singing. A damned poinsettia lay in their path. Finding an outlet for his frustration, he moved to kick the weed out of his way and muttered a curse as his boot passed right through it. Never was he so sorely tempted to outlaw Christmas all together.

"Calm down, Capitán." The spirit patted his hand. "It is a charming time of year."

Monastario twitched. "Speak for yourself."

They entered the establishment. A giddy chuckle drew his attention to the far end of the sala. "Ha, I win again, muchachos," Sergeant Garcia announced, sweeping the pile of coins in his direction. He occupied a table near the fireplace, along with several privates including Ortega, Hernandez, Herrera, Delgado and Ibarra. Mugs and bottles of wine interspersed with the playing cards.

Monastario released his grasp of the spirit's sleeve and stormed over to his soldiers. The sergeant should be on patrol and Ortega should be guarding the commandante's quarters, not gambling in the tavern. "Garcia!" he seethed, but the sergeant did not even so much as flinch. The capitán gritted his teeth; they could not see him.

His eyes then traced to his regular table where another damn weed sat. It was larger and fuller than its counterparts were; it may as well have been mocking him. He wanted to throw it out the window. It irritated Monastario to no end that he could do nothing to rectify the situation.

Struggling to inhale deep breaths to calm his temper while massaging his pulsating temple, his brow narrowed on the coins. That was quite the tidy sum wagered. Where did his men obtain that amount of money? Monastario glanced around the sala. Don Julio and Don Horacio drowsed at their usual table in the corner. Pina sat alone by the window finishing his meal, yet he only dismissed the licenciado from his office a few minutes ago.

Returning his focus to the sergeant, it dawned on him this had to be their wages from the recent payroll delivery. Monastario turned to the spirit with a quizzical expression and pointed to the póquer game. "This was two days ago. I thought you were the Ghost of Christmas Present?"

The spirit shrugged. "Two days ago, today, tomorrow… it is all close enough."

Monastario snorted. He could not stop the next question from passing his lips. "By chance, you are not somehow related to the sergeant, are you?"

"Oh, I can only wish to be," the spirit replied, the transparent cheeks blushing, apparently quite flattered. "It is a shame we are not; he is a good man with an appreciation for fine food and wine."

Monastario rolled his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest and observed the scene before him, wondering why this particular day held importance to the ghost.

"Only two pair, Ibarra?" Garcia laid down his cards. "Three queens. I win again." His boisterous laugh filled the sala. "It must be my lucky day. I should try to capture el Zorro tonight!"

"What would you do with the reward money, Sergeant?" Ortega asked, shuffling the deck.

"That is simple, Private. I would retire from the army and buy the tavern." A big grin spread across Garcia's face as he stacked the coins into neat piles at his side.

"Would you extend all of us lancers accounts?" Delgado inquired, peeking over his shoulder at the bar. "The innkeeper now never trusts us to settle up. He only gives us wine when we can pay."

"Sí, of course I would," Garcia replied. "A soldier never gets enough appreciation, especially from his superior officers," he giggled, "The King's Lancers will always be welcomed in my tavern."

A cheerful clamor broke out as the soldiers expressed their gratitude. "That is why you are our favorite sergeant," Ibarra said. "We know you will also have the prettiest girls in all of California dancing every night." He nudged his compañero. "Why are you so glum, Hernandez? You have never been a sore loser before."

"It is not the game," Hernandez sighed. "You know my girl is in San Juan Capistrano. She invited me to spend Christmas with her family. I asked the commandante for a three-day pass and he chased me out of his office, threatening to lock me in a cell if I mentioned it again."

The other soldiers exchanged miserable glances. "That is right, this is your first year stationed in Los Angeles," Delgado finally said. "The commandante hates Christmas."

"Sí," Garcia added with a nod. "Last year, on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, the capitán turned irritable—well, more irritable than usual," he chuckled, "and his mood did not improve until after Three Kings Day passed. That is if you can call his regular prickly mood an improvement."

"I am irritable, am I?" Monastario seethed. "We shall see how irritable I am when you are tasked with cleaning the horse stalls for the next year, my dear sergeant."

"Maybe the commandante was left lumps of coal in his shoes year after year when he was a child," Ibarra chimed in. Raucous laughter filled the sala. "Or maybe twigs of poison ivy."

"You will join him, Private Ibarra," Monastario fumed.

Herrera patted his friend on the shoulder. "We all learned it the hard way last year. The girl I am seeing, Mayra, invited me to Christmas dinner, too. She lives in the pueblo, but the commandante has ordered us all confined to the cuartel."

"I cannot spend it with Trini," Ortega lamented, forgetting to deal. "She makes the best turrón."

Garcia leaned in closer. "When Capitán Linares was commandante, before Capitán Monastario, he asked for volunteers to guard the cuartel on the holiday. The remaining lancers were allowed to go to the mission for services and to enjoy the feast there if we had no other plans." Garcia settled back in his chair and rubbed his belly. "Padre Felipe invited us again this year. He hosts one of the finest banquets in California! To think I will miss it once more."

"Do you see this? The blatant insolence and disregard for their commanding officer?" Monastario spun toward the spirit, his features burning with raw fury. He despised any comparisons to his damned predecessor. "You can tell your friend, the Ghost of the Past, this is why I must rule with a firm hand. She gave me grief without witnessing the full impudence of my men."

"Well, uh, Capitán," the spirit shifted uncomfortably under the glare, "The holidays are meant to be spent in the company of family and friends. You deny them this basic courtesy."

"Don't you dare side with them," Monastario retorted, jabbing a finger into the sprit's belly, not noticing when it passed through the massive shape. "They will all be brought up on charges of insubordination!"

The spirit frowned. "You are neglecting the purpose of this journey, Capitán."

Monastario was about to tell the ghost where he could shove this journey when the tavern door swung open. A large group of workers from area ranchos entered. He recognized several of the men by name, including Benito, the de la Vega vaquero he once arrested on charges of being el Zorro. If they so much as spoke a single ill word of his command, he would construct the largest gallows in the history of mankind and hang each and every last one of them.

"Feliz Navidad, Señores," Garcia called out to them. The group approached and exchanged merry holiday greetings with the soldiers. Monastario watched this strange interaction with great curiosity; since when did they all get along so well? When he dined in the tavern, the lancers and the citizens usually kept their distance.

"Will you join us, amigos?" Garcia inquired, gesturing for them to pull some chairs over. He indicated his winnings. "As you can see, it is my lucky day."

"Gracias, Sergeant, but I am afraid I cannot," Benito replied. "The wagons of supplies are scheduled to arrive from San Pedro this afternoon. Don Alejandro is expecting me."

"I am tempted to try my luck against you," the vaquero at Benito's elbow added, "but Don Nacho is waiting on me also." Other ranch hands chimed with similar apologies.

Garcia shrugged. "I would suggest we play cards another time, but this will all be gone tomorrow," he laughed, pointing to the pile of coins, "No one likes the army payday more than the innkeeper!"

"Perhaps next payday," Benito suggested. After a little more small talk and a second round of Navidad greetings, the workers decided to gather at the other end of the sala. Nearing the empty chairs, they strode right past Pina.

The licenciado raised his head and smiled in a friendly manner. He opened his mouth to say something, but they proceeded on without as much as a glance in his direction. Instead, the vaqueros paid their regards to Don Julio and Don Horacio.

Monastario's rage faded and he stepped closer to his lone ally. The long-buried feelings of being ignored by his fellow students at the university came bubbling to the surface and he could not shake them away. "Do they always treat him like this?"

"Sí," the spirit answered.

Pina swallowed hard, set his napkin next to his plate and tossed a few coins on the table. He stood quietly and scampered out of the posada. From the window, Monastario observed the lawyer taking refuge in his office down the street—just as the commandante often did in his own quarters.

"Why?" Monastario prodded. "It makes no sense. Those vaqueros conversed with my soldiers."

"The citizens of the pueblo understand the lancers must obey orders, whether they agree with them or not." The spirit joined the capitán at the window. "Licenciado Pina, on the other hand, conspires with you of his own accord."

Monastario bristled at the implication he conspired. He merely carried out his duties to the best of his abilities. If others disagreed with his methods, it was their problem.

Two barmaids emerged from behind the curtains carrying trays loaded with food for the soldiers. When their customers were happily eating between the dealing of cards, the attractive señoritas retrieved bottles of wine and mugs for the vaqueros who flirted with them. Crossing his arms over his chest, Monastario perched on the edge of a table, wondering why the spirit forced him to observe the ridiculous exhibition.

Following what seemed an eternity, the main door creaked ajar. The capitán snickered as the family of meek little mice crawled in. Serrato inched toward the bar where, once again, he stood with his hat clutched in his hands, his presence oblivious to the other patrons.

The innkeeper finally returned from the back room. "Feliz Navidad, Señor. What may I do for you?"

Serrato's gaze remained affixed on the floor. "D-Do you have a room?"

"Sí," the innkeeper peered at the newcomer's wife and children. "We have two adjoining rooms."

"No, we only need one." Serrato lifted his head. "What is the cost?"

"Two pesos a night."

The mouse extracted an old coin purse from his threadbare coat and emptied the contents on the bar. Monastario moved closer and counted the meager centavos. Serrato could not even afford a glass of water and he expected to rent a room?

"I-I am afraid I do not have enough. I am sorry to bother you." The husband and father turned to his family, waving them to leave. His wife frowned and ushered the niños to the door.

"Wait, Señor," the innkeeper called out. "What brings you to Los Angeles?"

"I am seeking work."

The innkeeper's features softened. "There are many excellent ranchos in need of good hands. I am sure you can find steady work in our pueblo. Maria will show you to a room." He called for one of the barmaids tending to the vaqueros. As she smoothed her skirts, shouts filtered in from the plaza. A peon on the porch stuck his head inside the posada to announce the lead wagon in the caravan from San Pedro arrived. Abandoning their mugs, the laborers emptied out.

"I cannot–" Serrato began, trying to avoid getting trampled, but Monastario doubted the man ever argued with anyone. What a timid fellow! Even Pina possessed nerves of steel in comparison.

"Nonsense, you will pay me when you find work. It is Christmas."

"I am surprised Serrato managed to ask a woman to marry him!" Monastario quipped. "How does that idiot ever expect to find work when he can barely string two words together and refuses to look a man in the eyes? Vaqueros from the leading families were gathered in a single room. All he had to do was approach them, but he stood motionless."

"Not everyone can be as aggressive as you, Capitán," the spirit chastised.

"You misinterpret me, Spirit. It is not about aggressiveness. It is a matter of what it entails to be a man. This pueblo is better off without that type of riffraff within its borders."

"Are you even curious as to what fate befell the family?"

Monastario sighed. "Not in the least, but I suspect you will tell me anyway." He wandered over by Garcia to watch the póquer game as the ghost tailed behind, reciting the humdrum tale.

"Señor Serrato received several acres of land when he completed his indenture contract with a hacendado in San Luis Rey. He married and had two niños. The family did quite well until the recent drought affected their crops. They were unable to pay the taxes, so their home and lands were seized by the government."

"Let me guess," Monastario glanced over his shoulder, "I am somehow to blame for their misfortune, even though I am not even the commandante of that district." He snorted. "Or am I to blame for the weather? Some of the peons have accused me of scheming with the devil; that would certainly give me the power to cause a drought. Maybe I will try my hand at an earthquake next."

"I am not implying you are to blame, Capitán, only that you might show some compassion," the spirit huffed. "Señor Serrato and the innkeeper came to a mutual agreement. You need not interfere in their personal business and lock the man and his family behind bars."

Garcia lost two hands as Monastario hovered over his shoulder. The capitán took pleasure in his effect on the game. He tried to ignore the rebuke; as much as he hated to admit it, the ghost held a valid argument. Ibarra gloated as he won the next pot.

"If the señor is unable to find employment with a rancho, his only option is to go to the mines." The spirit grabbed the officer by the upper arm. "You may never have wanted for anything in your life, Capitán Monastario, but it is no reason to scorn others. If he goes to the mines, Señor Serrato will die providing for his family. This is not an undertaking to be scoffed at."

The display of anger by the ghost stunned Monastario. He looked away, recognizing he truly never wanted for anything. Even after his father gambled away his inheritance, he had food in his belly, nice clothes on his back and a roof over his head. With a career in the army, he never had to worry about crops, livestock, diseases and natural disasters.

What would he do if saddled with a wife and children and no means to support them? Would he have the courage to beg for menial jobs? Damn these emotions! Monastario pushed past the ghost. Unable to escape, he pinched the bridge of his nose and stopped at the bar. "Do you wish for me to release the Serratos? Will that put an end to these visits?"

"For all your intelligence, you simply do not understand, do you?"

"Since I do not understand, then explain it to me so we can get this over with."

"It does not work that way, Capitán."

The door swung open of its own accord and the spirit motioned for him to exit. Garcia's gleeful baritone echoed in the background. "Aha, it is another win for Demetrio!"

With a wry grin, Monastario stepped onto the porch and squinted to adjust to the brightness. His eyes shot open and his head snapped upright when he heard the timber of his own voice reverberating through the plaza. The spirit transported them forward a day. He watched as this other version of himself tripped on the boy beggar and recovered his footing, only to get tangled up with the de la Vega deaf mute servant.

"Why does this pueblo have so many cripples?"

Sergeant Garcia halted his pace. "Oh, they are not cripples, Commandante. That is Bernardo, Don Diego's mozo. He must be purchasing paper to wrap gifts. The little boy is Timoteo. He is–"

Monastario turned his gaze away from the scene, searching for the boy who took the brunt of his anger. Timoteo peered out from his hiding spot at the side of the building. The pure fear etched into the lad's face stunned the capitán to his very core. He only recalled seeing that level of sheer horror on the men he ordered into combat.

Enrique Monastario swallowed hard; he knew he also shared that look during the Battle of the Nive.

"Are you proud?" the spirit observed. "You make the niños cower."

Monastario ignored the taunt. Did he really inspire such fear in the children of the pueblo? While a part of him wanted to gloat, a larger part of him felt ashamed. His father never erupted in this way. The boy happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time; he did not deserve such an outburst, especially not from the commandante.

Timoteo hobbled behind the tavern and disappeared from view. Monastario realized he first saw the boy in the plaza on the day he arrived to take command of the garrison. Even then, he walked with a pronounced limp. "What happened to him?"

"He scampered home, afraid to encounter you again."

"No, I meant what happened to his leg?"

His inquiry met with silence. Monastario sensed the spirit's glare boring into his back and pivoted to confront him. He did not anticipate the intense scrutiny. Squaring his posture, he stood his ground and held firm under the gaze. When the chubby features relaxed, the capitán had the strange feeling he won the ghost's approval, not that he needed or wanted it.

"Five years ago, Timoteo was eager to help his father till the farm land. The father relented, with the condition his son kept close to the mule up front. When the plow stalled on something hard in the ground, little Timoteo wanted to see why. His father did not know his son was on the other side; he dislodged the plow and the heavy tool fell on top of Timoteo."

Monastario shuddered in revulsion.

"His father frantically dug him free. Timoteo's thighbone was broken. At that time, there had been a severe influenza outbreak in Santa Barbara. Doctor Avilla and Padre Felipe traveled north to lend assistance. There were no doctors in Los Angeles. A young padre with limited medical experience did his best to set the bone, but it failed to heal properly."

During the war, Monastario witnessed many gruesome injuries, but those were to be expected when men were sent to slaughter each another. Yet the notion of a life so drastically altered by an innocent afternoon with a parent triggered a wave of nausea in the capitán. How many foolish stunts did he perform as a child that could have ended differently—tragically?

"Perhaps I should not have been so harsh with him," the capitán admitted in a hoarse whisper.

Monastario pressed his palms to his eyes, struggling to control these foreign emotions flowing through his veins. He felt the warm sun drifting from his cheek. When he lowered his hands, he found himself in the sanctuary of the Mission San Gabriel. Padre Felipe recited midnight mass from the lectern.

He surveyed the crowd. All parishioners dressed in their finest clothes; for a fleeting second, he could almost envision being at the gothic church in Seville. The most prominent families occupied the front pews, with the lower classes filling in behind at their turn.

Monastario's eyes fell on Diego de la Vega. This must be the sermon that will take place later in the night, for the young don was in Spain during the capitán's initial Christmas in Los Angeles. Continuing to scan the room, he next paused on Licenciado Pina in the shadows at the rear. In his black suit, he nearly blended in with the wall.

Tomás stood away from the others, keeping his head bowed in respect. When Padre Felipe concluded the ceremony, he slipped out a side door as the citizens exchanged merry greetings and well wishes. Monastario followed his ally into the night air where the lawyer mounted the ancient nag with three hooves in the grave.

"Like you, Licenciado Pina will not enjoy a Christmas feast," the spirit said. "The difference is that while you savor your solitude, he would very much like to be a part of the festivities. Instead, he ate a small meal earlier, some plain broth and bread. Now he will ride home and go to bed."

Monastario watched Pina disappear on the horizon. An unsettled feeling churned in his stomach.

The tranquility of the outdoors shattered as the gathering started filtering out of the church. Friends parted ways as families loaded into fancy carriages waiting to transport them home. Monastario's attention turned to Timoteo as he hobbled to a bare wagon drawn by an old mule, where another boy and two girls joined him.

"Come," the spirit waved for his guest to follow. He pushed through some overgrown shrubs and they were now in front of the humble home near the outskirts of the pueblo. The adobe hut was small, but well maintained except for a few broken tiles on the roof and the need for a fresh coat of paint.

The spirit led Monastario inside. The four children bustled in the kitchen and the aromas of roasted chicken filled the home. A señorita no older than sixteen or seventeen set the last of the plate of food on the table. She turned to the younger girl who carried a glass in each hand. "Be careful, Telma."

"This makes no sense," Monastario said. "She is not old enough to have three children."

"They are siblings," the spirit clarified. "Paola is the oldest, followed by her brother, Rogelio, and her sister, Telma. Timoteo is the baby of the family."

"Where are their parents?"

"Their mother succumbed to illness about a year after Timoteo's accident. Their father was killed less than a year ago. You do not remember him, do you, Capitán?"

"Should I?" Monastario moved closer and observed the meager pickings on the table. "A single chicken, a loaf of bread and a few vegetables… This qualifies as their Christmas feast?"

"Paola does her best to provide for her family."

"That is what orphanages are for," Monastario quipped.

The spirit shook his head in dismay. "If you were in her shoes, would you send your sister to an orphanage or do the best you can to provide for her?"

Monastario huffed and turned away from the ghost. Of course he would not send Laurita to live in some filthy pigsty. He would fight tooth and nail to give her what she deserved. So, why would he expect others to do different? He cursed these new emotions again.

The four siblings each claimed a chair. Folding their hands on the table and bowing their heads, Rogelio led them in saying grace. When he finished, Timoteo added, "God bless us everyone."

"Everyone but the snake of a commandante," Rogelio spat. "He can rot in hell!" Monastario gritted his teeth as his fingers curled into fists at his sides. The nerve of the beast!

"Shush," Paola admonished, her eyes growing wide in fear as she peered around the room. "The capitán has spies everywhere. If he heard you speaking such words, he would not hesitate to tie you to the whipping post."

The boy crunched his nose in defiance.

"That conniving little brat," Monastario seethed. "I have done nothing to him."

"Corporal Eloy Macías," the spirit remarked. "He was their father."

"So?"

"He served under you when you first arrived in Los Angeles. Only a few weeks into your command, you received a dispatch from the garrison in Santa Inéz. They were being plagued by a particularly violent gang of bandidos and required any and all available troops to quell them."

"Sí, I vaguely remember that," Monastario replied. "Several soldiers were among the causalities. The commandante there offered a hefty bonus to any lancer who answered the call. I allowed my men to volunteer if they so desired."

"Corporal Macías was one of those volunteers. He needed the money. He buried his wife and had four children to provide for. Their father was killed apprehending the gang's leader."

"I fail to see how that is my fault."

"It is not your fault per se, Capitán, but how you handled the aftermath. The corporal was a career soldier who put in his twenty years of service. His children were entitled to collect death benefits and the bonus he was promised." A sad smile formed on the spirit's chubby cheeks. "They tried to claim what was rightfully theirs, but you denied them."

"If you are going to accuse me of misconduct, at least get the facts correct," Monastario retorted. "Corporal Macías was temporarily assigned to Santa Inéz. It was the responsibility of the capitán there to pay out any benefits, especially the bonus."

"Ah, but that capitán insisted Macías was still on the Los Angeles payroll. The burden belonged to you, Capitán Monastario." The spirit grinned. "And he did forward the bonus to you."

"Which barely covered the administrative expenses related to his death," Monastario replied smoothly. "I cannot help it if the grieving family became a victim of government bureaucracy."

"Now it is you who are getting the facts mixed up, Capitán. That money lined your pockets. When the children finally gave up, you filled out the paperwork to collect the benefits and kept it for yourself. They are illiterate, so you forged a simple mark. Who would believe a bunch of peasant children over a decorated officer? Is that not correct, _Commandante_?"

"How did–" Monastario caught himself just short of the admission, his cheeks flushing.

"How did I know?" the spirit inquired. "Let us just say it is a perk of being a ghost."

Monastario narrowed his brow and took a deep breath to regain his composure. While the spirit bore an uncanny resemblance to Garcia, he certainly did not share Garcia's dim-witted intelligence. No, this ghost was more akin to the cunning fox than the dumb ox. He would not underestimate his opponent twice.

The capitán affected his most charming smile. "It seems you have your facts mixed up again, Spirit. I suggest not listening to my enemies. They are full of untruths." As much as he wanted to dare the ghost to prove it, he would not bestow him the satisfaction.

"Do you not find it intriguing that an entire pueblo is your enemy?" the spirit inquired, matching the smug grin. "Not only did you wrong this family once—we shall count the theft of their father's bonus and death benefits as a single incident—you continue to wrong them to this very day with your new peddler taxes."

Monastario laughed. "Again, you misconstrue the situation. I am but a humble servant of our king. I do not have the power to mandate taxes; that is the governor's job. It is my duty to collect them."

"I beg your pardon, Commandante," the spirit bowed in mocking fashion. "You are correct to an extent. The alcalde and the cabildo also have that authority." He stroked his chin. "Ah, but you stripped the Los Angeles alcalde of his office and disbanded the cabildo."

Monastario's ire crept back in. "Had the cabildo been left to their own devices, they would have incited an uprising with their rhetoric. I did not make the decision to disband them lightly; it was done for the good of the people."

"I believe you call this tariff an administrative fee."

"The peasants who operate those stands in the plaza pose a danger to all who visit the pueblo. If they are not held to some basic standard, they may catch fire, topple onto their owners and create risks to horses. I require all peddlers to fill out paperwork detailing the nature of their business and sign documents that state they understand the upkeep."

"It seems reasonable enough. Of course, you charge a fee for this," the spirit remarked, "in addition to routine inspection fees. Then there is yet another fee, something about a portion of their sales."

"The tasks of ensuring they abide by the local ordinances draws my men away from more important duties," Monastario snapped. "I see no problem in requiring the peddlers to bear a small portion of these expenses."

"More important duties," the spirit laughed, "such as drinking and gambling in the tavern?"

Monastario's face and ears burned with rage. "Why you–"

"All of these fees you collect… where do they go?" The spirit smirked. "They line your pockets some more." He crooked his head. "Your trousers must be getting rather heavy by now."

"I do not need to listen to these insults."

"Yes, you do," the spirit refuted, his voice deepening. "Look at this paltry feast these children call Christmas dinner. The one you mocked!" He grabbed the capitán by the shoulders and forced him to turn toward the family. "Paola struggles to put food on the table and provide for her siblings. She sends Rogelio and Telma to the plaza several times a week to sell her needlework, extra eggs from their chickens and whatever else they have to earn a little extra money. Even Timoteo, with his disability, tries to help. You don't need the damn money you steal from them—they do!"

The booming intonation shook the walls and rattled the furniture. Monastario gulped and stepped back from the furious giant. For a fleeting second, he feared this ghost would strike him down.

"You are the commandante," the spirit pressed forth. "Every decision you make affects the citizens under your protection. That is your duty, Capitán, to protect them. When will you start living up to your responsibilities?"

Monastario's smooth tongue failed him; he did not have a sharp retort. To his horror, the ghost appeared to grow larger the more furious it got. He continued inching backward to put more distance between them when he tripped. Falling hard to the floor, he sat dazed for a moment before scrambling to his feet. Only he was no longer in the Macías home.

Capitán Monastario stood alone in his office.

Eyes wide and heart pounding a mile-a-minute in his chest, he listened for any indication his visitor was still present. Hearing nothing, he stumbled to his bedroom.

There was no sign of the giant, the couch or the many platters of food. Monastario rubbed his hands over his face and through his hair, struggling to cope with the flood of unfamiliar emotions. His breathing slowed to a normal level and he spied the setting sun beyond the window. He raced to the office door and swung it open. The cool burst of air felt refreshing on his fevered skin.

Private Ortega jumped, appearing frightened.

Feeling a sense of déjà vu from earlier, Monastario impulsively slammed the door shut. Staggering to his desk, he sank into the chair and cupped his head in his hands.

"What in the hell is happening to me?"


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: Some scenes and dialogue in this chapter are not mine. They belong to the gifted pen of Zorro series writer John Meredyth Lucas.

* * *

**Monastario's Haunted Christmas**

**Chapter 4  
"The Last of the Three Spirits"**

Something rigid and smooth pressed against one side of Capitán Monastario's face. With his thoughts still muddled by sleep, he simply could not fathom why his pillowcase held a block of cement. His arms dangled loosely at his sides, brushing his legs. What happened to his bed? Groaning, he forced his eyelids open and lifted his head, ignoring the crick in his back.

Pitch-black enveloped him.

Blinking hard, he reached up and tugged off what felt like a piece of paper stuck to his cheek. Desperate to make sense of his surroundings, he listened intently for any indication of where he was and heard faint voices in the distance. The chair beneath his weight seemed strangely familiar as he shifted to get more comfortable.

Did he fall asleep at his desk? To confirm his suspicion, he traced his fingers along the intricate carvings on the armrests. Sí, this was definitely his chair.

Monastario fumbled in the drawers until he found the box of matches. He hesitated with his hand on the lid, half-expecting the candelabra to burst into flames of its own accord. It did have a peculiar habit of doing that lately. When flames did not materialize, he removed a stick and struck the end on the rough package. It ignited with a flash and he lit the candlewicks on each stem.

Taking solace in the warm flickering glow, his eyes scanned the empty room and focused on the sheet of paper he pulled from his cheek. It remained pristine minus the fresh drool stain. At least he would not have to scrub inkblots from his skin.

He ran his hands over his face, struggling to contend with the images flashing in his mind and the infernal emotions coursing through his veins. Memories he preferred to keep buried where they belonged. After coercing his weary body to stand, he cracked open the window shutter on the far side of the office.

Muted orange glows from burning torches illuminated the courtyard. Stars twinkled in the clear sky. He turned to the timepiece. Eight o'clock. The last he remembered, he sat down behind the desk as twilight descended over the pueblo. Did he doze off for three hours?

A loud grumble broke the silence.

Monastario rubbed his hungry stomach. He recalled eating an apple during a lull in the haunting, but nothing substantial. No wonder he felt so famished. Selecting a taper from the cabinet tucked under the window, he lit it using the candelabra and wandered toward his bedroom.

He paused in the threshold and inhaled a deep breath. With the flame extended at arm's length in front of him, he made certain his quarters were clear of anymore of the ghostly visitors before entering. He affixed the candle to a bare holder by the mirror. This time, the reflection staring back at him did not look as wild.

A little unsettled perhaps, but not a wild-eyed lunatic.

The washbasin still contained water from earlier, so he dumped the contents out the window and filled it with fresh. Splashing his face, Monastario savored the feel of the cool liquid on his flesh. It amazed him how something so basic could be so revitalizing. He dipped the towel into the water and dabbed his neck.

With his stomach maintaining its desire for food, he returned to his office. Opening the door and strolling onto the portico, Ortega straightened and saluted. Monastario acknowledged the gesture. "At ease, Private. I presume Sergeant Garcia has returned from his afternoon patrol."

"Sí, mi Capitán," Ortega replied. "He instructed us to take up positions in the cuartel."

Monastario nodded in approval. The overstuffed excuse for a soldier was finally learning to do things properly. "Find him and send him to my quarters."

"Sí, mi Capitán."

Monastario left the door open to allow the fresh air inside and settled onto the couch where he snacked on some grapes. A few minutes later, a knock sounded on the frame. Garcia entered, stomped his boots and saluted. "You wanted to see me, Commandante?"

"I will take supper in my office tonight."

"Sí, mi Commandante."

"The lancers are to stay alert for Zorro. Make no doubt about it, Sergeant, he will strike tonight."

"Sí, mi Commandante." Garcia remained at attention, his sight aimed directly forward.

Monastario grinned. "You are dismissed."

The sergeant stomped his boots again, turned and departed. Shaking his head with a chuckle, Monastario plucked a grape off the stem, tossed it in the air and caught it in his mouth. The mirth on his lips died as he recognized he was alone once more. His eyes trained on the clock.

Less than four hours lingered in this miserable day.

Ramón said he would have three visitors. That meant there was one yet to deal with. He did not know whether to plot an escape or hope this final ghost would show up soon merely to put an end to this inexhaustible nightmare.

His friend's teasing also echoed in his ears: "The last spirit is a rather somber creature, but you will find out for yourself soon enough. Do not let him get to you."

Oh, the corporal laughed his concerns away, but Monastario suffered enough of Ramón's sense of humor all those years ago to realize he might not be entirely joking. A part of him grew increasingly worried over just what form this third spirit would assume. The capitán made a vow to hunt his old friend down in the afterlife if some damned masker haunted him.

Aware it would take awhile until Garcia delivered his supper, Monastario set about catching up on his paperwork to keep his mind off his troubles. Settling into his chair, he concentrated on the bundle of folders forwarded by his superiors in Santa Barbara. They were the personnel records of the new lancers scheduled to arrive next month.

He shuffled through the papers of the first private. Born in Jolon, the nineteen-year-old had minimal experience wielding a sword, even less skill with the pistol and could not read or write. Monastario pushed the folder aside and moved to the next file.

To no surprise, the twenty-year-old private from Santa Margarita came equipped with comparable skills to his counterpart from Jolon. Did the army not make any attempts for decent recruits anymore? Monastario added it to the pile with the first. With a frustrated sigh, he flipped the third folder open.

The death benefits form for Corporal Eloy Macías taunted him.

Monastario hurtled backward, the legs of the chair scraping against the floor as he dropped the manila folder. He rubbed a shaky hand over the nape of his neck and reached out to peek at the contents of the folder again. It must have been his imagination playing tricks, the fault of that damned ghost. Yes, it had to be his exhausted imagination. He leaned in closer and exhaled the breath lodged in his throat.

It was only the standard paperwork for a new soldier.

Regaining his composure, he scooted closer to the desk and retrieved the file. He thumbed through the pages—and his eyes met the death benefits once more. The capitán yanked his hand away as if the very touch burned his fingertips. It's impossible!

His body trembling, he stared at the cursed object, building the courage to take another peek.

Just as he did a minute ago, he looked upon the standard profile assembled for new recruits. Monastario tore at the sheets seeking evidence of his misdeed, but it was not there. He shoved the ragged document aside and cupped his head in his palms.

Spreading his fingers, his gaze focused on the fourth folder. Heart pounding in his chest, he examined it out of sheer desperation, needing to know what it contained. The service record of an older lancer named Corporal Donato Reyes greeted him. Perusing the elegant handwriting proved to be soothing; his breathing slowed and he salvaged control of his frayed nerves.

While the corporal was not a spectacular lancer by any means, he possessed a dependable history and a familiarity with procedure. Perhaps this Reyes would be a soldier he could entrust to carry out orders as directed without being distracted by a bottomless appetite for refreshments.

The distinctive thump of a boot kicking the doorframe startled Monastario. He glanced up to see Garcia carrying a platter in. The capitán grimaced. He did not close the door and Ortega stood guard just outside. Did the private discern his superior's momentary lapses?

"Where should I put it?" Garcia asked.

"Huh?" Monastario muttered, not registering the words.

"Where would you like me to put the tray, Capitán?" Garcia repeated, crinkling his brow.

"Over there," Monastario replied, pointing to the small end table by the couch. He joined the sergeant just as the chubby paws pulled the towels off the dishes. His eyes widened, smoldering with barely restrained irritation as he gaped at the meal: roasted chicken, bread and vegetables. The very same dinner the Macías siblings would call their Christmas feast.

"What is the meaning of this, Sergeant?"

"I do not understand, Capitán."

He indicated the tray, "What in the hell is this?"

"It is Maria's roasted chicken and–"

"I can see that, you baboso! Is this some sort of joke? Why in the hell did you bring it to me?"

Garcia took a hesitant step back from his superior. The same panicked look Monastario witnessed on Ortega's features now crept onto the sergeant's round face. "You sent me to fetch your supper, Capitán. The innkeeper serves this every Nochebuena, er, every year at this time. You are lucky the kitchen still had some left. The staff is closing up to attend the… to go to the mission."

Feeling his sanity slipping from his grasp, Monastario glanced from the tray to Garcia, who could not have known about the Macías feast. "Very well, Sergeant, you are dismissed." He called out over his shoulder, "Shut the door on your way out."

Monastario sank onto the couch. His stomach grumbled louder than before, so he relented and started on the meal. He ate no more than half of it when a wave of nausea washed over him. The capitán tossed the napkin down and paced the room.

He wanted this miserable day to end and he wanted it to end without the last ghostly visitor.

Images of Licenciado Pina blending into the rear wall of the mission snaked into his thoughts. Perhaps he should pay Tomás a visit and have a drink with him. He would not have to listen to any wretched Christmas greetings and the ghosts had yet to bother him while in the company of others. It was a win-win scenario for all involved.

Monastario grinned at his ingeniousness. He sprinted to his bedroom to retrieve his sword and latched the scabbard to his waist. Raising his chin, he jumped and nearly screamed aloud.

A figure in a black hooded robe floated inches above the floor. Shorter than the capitán, it bore an eerie resemblance to the Grim Reaper sans the scythe. The openings of its sleeves touched at its chest, its arms held in a position that reminded him of a friar. The hem of its satin garment fluttered in a nonexistent breeze. It was not as transparent at Ramón and his friends. Curiosity got the better of Monastario and he tried to steal a quick peek under the hood. His eyes encountered murky shadows.

Santa Maria!

No hands, no feet and no face. What in the hell lurked beneath the robe? A creature, Monastario surmised with a gulp. "Y-You are the G-Ghost of Christmas Yet to C-Come," he silently cursed his stuttering, "here to show me my future?"

The spirit nodded and proffered its elbow.

Swallowing hard and feeling oddly faint, Monastario took it. The extremity beneath the smooth cloth felt thin and narrow, very unlike a human arm. When the swirl of dizziness lifted, the two were in the tavern amid a celebration. However, it was not for Christmas.

A distinguished gentleman Enrique recognized as Don Estevan de la Callas, the Viceroy of New Spain, sat at the head of a long table. To the official's left was a beautiful young woman he suspected was Constancia, Don Estevan's daughter he heard so much about. Said to be as elegant as a rose blossom and as intoxicating as fine wine, no caballero had yet succeeded in winning the spirited señorita's heart.

The future version of himself stood from his chair at the viceroy's immediate right and gave an eloquent toast. Leading citizens of the pueblo, lining the length of the table, raised crystal goblets. Enrique watched with great interest as Don Estevan thanked his gracious host and the gathering dispersed for the night.

His future self slipped away from the crowd and whispered something into Garcia's ear. To his chagrin, he could not hear what he said. The sergeant promptly exited the tavern. What did he have planned? Enrique then observed himself rejoining the esteemed official and his daughter. Releasing his grasp of the spirit, he moved closer to the group.

"Excellency, you have been so patient, I beg you grant me a few minutes more. I have been saving a surprise for you," the capitán said with a devilish grin.

Constancia smiled flirtatiously, batting her eyelashes at him, obviously intrigued by his words and his dashing countenance. "The commandante has been full of surprises, Father."

Ah, yes, she was quite smitten with him! Enrique envisioned the privileges that came with being the viceroy's son-in-law. "When I told you I had stamped out all crime in Los Angeles, it was only partly true," he heard himself saying while admiring the señorita's beauty.

"Indeed, only partly?" Don Estevan repeated.

"Yes, I had not accounted for the bandit known as Zorro. As you know, he has been a constant source of terror to this entire pueblo. Striking at night when the innocent are asleep. Lurking in the shadows like a black ghost. Why, even our brave lancers have been powerless against him."

Enrique smirked. He had such an eloquent manner of speaking; perhaps he would follow in his prospective father-in-law's footsteps and govern the colony. Don Enrique Sanchez Monastario, Viceroy of New Spain. It had a charming ring to it.

"Sounds clever, Commandante," Don Estevan remarked. "I wish we had him on our side."

"But, Your Excellency, I have the honor to announce at this very moment, Zorro is my prisoner."

Licenciado Pina stepped forward. "You have actually captured Zorro?"

The capitán of the future beamed. "I have just sent for him so you can all see him unmasked."

"This should prove to be exciting," Constancia cooed, impressed by his striking prowess.

Naturally, Don Estevan appeared cautious. "I thought you said this fox outwitted your soldiers."

"My soldiers, Your Excellency, represent only military force," he replied smoothly. "But you do not catch a fox by brute strength, but by cunning."

Garcia's booming voice echoed from outside. His future self straightened his shoulders, puffing out his chest in confident victory. The door burst open and Zorro walked in flanked by guards.

Enrique's eyes glittered. He won! He captured the fox! He vaguely heard his own voice registering in the background, "As you can see, Your Excellency, I have brought a fox to earth."

Exhilaration rushed through his veins, flooding his ears and drowning out the rest of his own speech as Enrique stepped closer to his enemy. He had crossed blades with this devil more times than he cared to admit and spent far too many nights chasing him in the hills until dawn. Inches from the man's face, he studied the traits not cloaked by the mask. The thin moustache, the firm jaw, the unblemished skin, the deceitful eyes…

He held no doubts whatsoever this was indeed the real Zorro. His fingers itched to yank the black mask off, but he waited for his future self. After all, they both deserved to savor this momentous occasion. The capitán reached up and pulled away the mask.

Diego de la Vega!

Enrique staggered back. That peacock? Despite his shock, he knew it to be true. He would not make a mistake. His blood boiled in rage when he considered how close his enemy was all along. Diego de la Vega visited the Mission San Gabriel every day when he had Torres cornered; he showed up at the Torres hacienda to help his friend escape; he was even close by during the incident with the pitch!

De la Vega waited at the cuartel gate for their return, fully aware the soldiers would be covered in the thick, black tar. After all, it was he who tricked them into taking nosedives into the La Brea pitch lake. He made some smug quip about how they all pitched in! Enrique growled when he recalled how his best uniform was ruined.

Murmurs swept over the assembled party.

Enrique's moment of triumph withered when de la Vega exchanged lighthearted pleasantries with Don Estevan and Constancia. The turncoat went so far as to cordially shake the viceroy's hand. He was grateful when his future self asked the very same question burning on the tip of his tongue. "You… You know this man, Your Excellency?"

"Why of course we do," Don Estevan replied, as if everyone should be aware of this detail. "Diego and my son went to the same university in Spain."

"We are very good friends," Constancia added.

"Capitán Monastario," Don Estevan's eyes narrowed, "is this accusation your idea of a joke?"

"No, Your Excellency," the capitán began with slight hesitation, before reaffirming his resolve. "It is no joke. Diego de la Vega is the infamous outlaw Zorro."

"But what reason would Diego have to turn outlaw?" Don Estevan inquired, his tone tinged with incredulousness. "The de la Vegas are the wealthiest landowners in California."

The damned masker utilized this lucky break to his advantage, just as a cunning fox would. "If to turn outlaw means to fight his tyranny," Diego nodded at the commandante, "there is reason enough. Zorro has all of my sympathy. Unfortunately, I–" he shrugged, "Well, I do not share his abilities."

Liar! Enrique's fingers curled into fists at his sides. Even when in the guise of a docile popinjay, Diego possessed a glib tongue, contradicting his feigned persona. Why did these idiots not see past the deception? He knew his other self would not allow this affront to go unanswered.

"Señor Alcalde," the capitán interrogated the pueblo's mayor, who lingered behind Constancia, "you have been witness to Zorro's misdeeds against the crown."

"Sí."

"You have had a good look at him," he pressed forth.

"Sí."

"Is this man not Zorro?" he demanded.

"I-I am not sure," the old fool wavered, "In this costume, he looks like him."

The capitán sought a more steadfast confirmation from Garcia. "Sergeant, you have my permission to speak freely. De la Vega submitted without protest when you arrested him, did he not?"

Garcia's round features twisted in anxiety. "Sí, Commandante, but–"

"You, Licenciado Pina," the capitán addressed his ally, "You have seen this bandit at close range. Can you not identify this prisoner as Zorro?"

Beads of sweat formed on Tomás' forehead. His skin paled and his breathing grew shallow as he stole a weary glance at the viceroy. For a brief instant, Enrique thought the lawyer might black out, but his collaborator rose to the challenge. In a strong voice, he replied, "Yes, I am positive, Your Excellency. This man without a doubt is Zorro."

Enrique and his future self grinned in victory, until the turncoat made a last ditch effort to escape the charges against him. An unsettled feeling churned in the pit of his stomach. His enemy was not one to underestimate, especially when the viceroy considered de la Vega an old family friend.

"Don Estevan, will you permit me one favor please," Diego beseeched.

"What is it?" the viceroy inquired.

"Send the commandante out to, uh, cool his befuddled head," Diego made a swirling motion with his hand as if to infer the capitán was crazy, "while I have a word with you."

"Whatever the prisoner has to say can be said in my presence," the capitán declared.

Diego did his best to play the role of the browbeaten innocent. "Do not worry, Commandante, I will not try to escape." Every facet of the man was a ruse! He deserved an award for the performance.

Don Estevan agreed to the appeal, "It seems to be a reasonable request."

Enrique realized his enemy had just backed him into a corner. The capitán, also recognizing the gravity of this crafty dilemma, relented. Much to his satisfaction, his other self did not allow Diego the final word on the matter and inquired of the viceroy, "Will you be responsible for him?"

"Yes, I will," Don Estevan nodded.

"Very well, I bow to your wishes, Excellency," the capitán conceded. "Come with me, Sergeant."

Enrique did not budge from his position near Diego as the two soldiers exited the tavern. Sensing a trick hidden in the folds of the fox's cloak, he had no intention of moving. What lies would spew from the turncoat's mouth? The ghost floated to his side and nodded toward the door. "Oh, no, Spirit, I am not about to miss this."

The sleeves parted revealing a hand. Enrique's heart thudded in his chest. Instead of human flesh or even the fur of a creature, he stared agape at white bones; bones that looked exactly like the illustrations in his textbooks at the university. His eyes rolled back in his skull and he felt strangely faint as the skeleton's fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Enrique allowed the spirit to lead him to the outdoor patio. The crisp air helped him to breathe. He sank onto the bench pushed under a window. From the corner of his vision, he spied the spirit tucking the bony extremities into the sleeves once again. He pressed his palms to his pulsating temples, wishing he would wake from this nightmare.

When his heartbeat slowed to a normal rhythm and he regained control of his wits, he jumped to his feet. Enrique leaned on the bench, trying to peer inside the posada through the crack where the drapes met. He cursed under his breath when he could not see anything.

A howling wind whipped through the plaza. The cool breeze tousled his hair and he glanced over his shoulder. The spirit's hood moved from side to side, signaling its displeasure. It inclined its head, instructing the capitán to step away. Enrique yielded, for he did not want to lay eyes on the skeletal figure hidden under the robe. As he settled on the bench, part of the conversation his future self had with the sergeant drifted to his ears.

"Look at me, Sergeant. Do you find me attractive?"

"No."

"Oh, you idiot, I mean if you were a woman."

"If I was a woman and fat like this," Garcia rubbed his belly, "I wouldn't be particular."

Enrique groaned and cupped his head in his hands. "I have spent too long in the company of the sergeant," he muttered to the spirit. "I am beginning to sound like that baboso." He struggled to ignore the remainder of the inane discussion when he heard himself order Garcia inside to find out what was going on.

In a blink, the sergeant reappeared. "His Excellency wishes for you to return."

Enrique followed them, but paused at the entrance, deferring to the spirit. It nodded its consent and floated alongside him. He did not take more than a few steps into the sala when he sensed something was wrong. De la Vega reaffixed the mask to his face. Why?

As his future self continued stating his case to the viceroy, Enrique surveyed the crowd. The innkeeper grinned. There was something definitely very wrong. More smiles formed on the faces of the others, including the alcalde. Each time the capitán turned toward the fox, the viceroy distracted him with fingers pressed to the chest.

Enrique's gaze shot to Pina. Beads of sweat still clung to the lawyer's brow. He tried to send a warning glance to his ally, but the viceroy kept him preoccupied with that damned hand to his chest. Now this official appointed by the king was conspiring with a bandit?

"No, Your Excellency, without a doubt this man is Zorro," the capitán asserted.

"No one can ask for a more positive identification than that," Diego said with an arrogant smirk, popping up from behind the bar.

Enrique stumbled at the verbal blow. The capitán ripped the mask from the imposter's face, revealing one of his lancers now donned the costume. It was another of de la Vega's tricks! Don Estevan permitted this deceitfulness? Staring at the insufferable Diego, Enrique developed the overwhelming urge to wring the bastard's neck with his bare hands.

"But I know de la Vega is guilty. He poses as a poet, a weakling, an inept swordsman. Yet the other day I saw him duel an expert and vanquish him when he thought he was unobserved." Enrique arched an eyebrow at his own declaration, desiring to know more about this incident in the future.

"The commandante is more confused that I had imagined," Diego spread his arms in a shrewd ploy to support his innocence with body language, "but this is becoming an obsession with him."

Garcia stepped closer to the viceroy's ear. "The commandante has not been well. On this matter of Zorro, he has hardly slept."

The capitán spun to the sergeant. "Shut up, you idiot. I do not need your advice or help." He turned his focus back to the traitor. "You have made a fool of me once too often."

"You give me too much credit, Commandante. It takes no skill at all to make a fool of you."

Everything spun out of control so quickly. They were all conspiring together—even his lancers—to make him appear mad. Enrique felt his life and his career unraveling at the hands of his sworn nemesis. He breathed a sigh of relief when his other self maintained his hallmark tenacity.

"If I cannot appeal to the viceroy's reasoning, then I will appeal to the de la Vega honor." He removed the gloves tucked at his waist and slapped the fox on the cheek. "I demand satisfaction."

"Very well," Diego replied, looking every ounce the injured puppy, "Sword please." A bystander in the crowd passed him a rapier. "Gloves."

"Innkeeper, clear the room," the capitán ordered.

"Oh, no, Señor Commandante, if you must fight, please fight outside," the innkeeper pleaded.

"Idiot," the capitán donned his own gloves, "Lancers, get the table and chairs out of here." His directive was quickly carried out. On the open sala floor, he drew his weapon and sliced the air with the fine Toledo steel, giving his opponent a small taste of what was to come. "Now we shall show His Excellency your ability with the blade. Fight well, for I am going to kill you."

Enrique's eyes glistened in anticipation as the swords crossed. He would not lose this time. Zorro only bested him in the past because the masker used the element of surprise, striking when least expected and not adhering to the code of honor duelers lived by. The traitor embraced cheap theatrics, such as dressing in black from head to toe and hiding in the night where he was barely discernible since he knew he was no match for the commandante. That and his bumbling soldiers always interfered when they were not needed.

He knew he was the superior swordsman. Here, face to face, sans the pranks, he would prevail.

Diego clumsily parried each of his attacks. They kept at it, Diego maintaining the act of a fool, even pushing a table onto his opponent. What cowardice!

The blades conversed—his rapid advances and Diego's last second blocks—until the turncoat slipped by and smacked him on the rear with the blade. Enrique slapped his palm to his forehead. Diego continued making a mockery of the duel, whacking him on the backside again. After a few more exchanges, and pinned down by the fireplace, the unmasked fox finagled a boot to the capitán's chest, sending him sprawling into a table.

Enrique's ire bubbled in his veins, but as he studied the turncoat's fencing technique in action, he realized his grave mistake. The de la Vegas were one of the most respected families in California. He expected them to have honor and always treated them with the deference such pedigree demanded. His future self approached his nemesis as a caballero, but he was nothing more than a despicable bandit—a jester.

Confronted with the charges against him, Diego made jokes. He coaxed the viceroy into playing into one of his deceptions. Now, crossing blades with the capitán, he refused to show his true talent. Behind the awkward parries lay the sharp reflexes and smooth footwork of an expert. He refused to drop the act even when his life was on the line, preferring to hide under the pretense of a poet.

Diego de la Vega had no honor.

He should have treated the treacherous outlaw like the very traitor he is!

"Diego, that is enough!" the viceroy demanded as a window shattered. "Stop it!"

The capitán had his prey cornered and would not allow him to escape again. Using the distraction to his advantage, he knocked the sword from the fox's grip and pressed the blade to his neck. "Now admit you are Zorro or your throat will never utter another sound. I give you one last chance."

Enrique felt the tide turning in his favor. If he did not spill de la Vega's blood here, he would lead him to the gallows shortly. He could almost see the ceremony promoting him to colonel.

Shouts from his men sounded from outside, shattering his reverie. "Zorro! Lancers to arms!"

Enrique darted to the same window his future self looked out of, sharing similar expressions of disbelief. A black horse and rider barreled through the plaza. They both ran to the door.

The point of a dagger wedged in the wood. Don Estevan pulled it free, untied the note attached and read it aloud. "Sorry to have missed your fiesta. Zorro."

"No," Enrique whispered. "De la Vega is Zorro. All of the pieces fit. I know it to be true." His head snapped in the direction of the turncoat. Still leaning against the wall he was pinned to seconds ago, the young don appeared equally astonished the fox rode to his rescue.

A rush of possibilities flooded Enrique's mind. If that were indeed the real Zorro, he would not have simply galloped through the pueblo; he would have put on a grand performance in front of the viceroy with the sole intent of embarrassing the commandante once again.

"It is another of his damned tricks! He has an accomplice!" Enrique desperately tried to capture the attention of his future self. "Look at de la Vega! Look at him! His surprise gives him away." He went to shake his shoulders, but his hands passed through the uniform.

His efforts were in vain.

"No," he muttered, stumbling toward the wall to brace himself. Darkness swirled at the corners of his vision as the capitán and licenciado were placed under arrest and escorted to the cuartel by the lancers. "My career… My life… They are over."

The spirit's sleeves parted, revealing a bony hand. It pointed at the door.

Enrique barely registered this. When he did not move from his position at the wall, the ghost floated to him and placed the extremity on his arm. In a daze, he allowed the spirit to escort him from the tavern. Descending the stairs on wobbly knees, he noticed a few merchants emerging from their homes in the hopes of catching a glimpse of their hero. Instead, they were treated to the downfall of their commandante.

Rage and humiliation churned in his veins. Enrique's fog cleared and his eyes narrowed when he spied the de la Vega deaf mute rounding the corner of the inn. The manservant was always loitering in the plaza when not keeping close to his master. How many times had he revealed his plans within earshot of this foolish little man? Could that cripple be the fox's accomplice?

Enrique shook his head at the ridiculous notion. He once fired a rifle into the ground and the servant did not flinch in the slightest. Still, something about the childlike innocence of this mozo unnerved him at the moment.

Returning his attention to his surroundings, he now stood in the middle of the cuartel watching helpless as the lancers ushered their commanding officer into a cell and locked the door. They caged him like some filthy animal. De la Vega should be here, not him.

Enrique pulled away from the spirit and neared the jail. As his fingers wrapped around the cold metal bars, he was suddenly inside looking out at the courtyard. "What is this?" He used every ounce of strength he possessed to break free of his prison, but the solid iron did not budge.

The spirit floated closer.

"Let me out of here!" He continued struggling with the bars. "You cannot keep me here!" A few soldiers whispered amongst themselves and pointed in his direction, but not one paid heed to his outburst. They ignored him and mocked him. His throat growing sore from the shouting, he paced the small space like a panther.

The spirit remained just outside his cell. Enrique slumped onto the hard cot and stared at him with pure malice. "This has not even happened yet. What purpose does this confinement serve?"

When he received no answer, he cupped his head in his hands. Perhaps if he went to sleep, he would awaken in his office and this last stage of his journey would be complete. But he could not bring himself to doze on some filthy cot reserved for lowly peasants.

Enrique Monastario remained hunched in the dank confines of the jail with no concept of time. After what seemed an eternity, he felt warm rays on his skin. Expecting to see the garrison courtyard bathed in sunlight, he was flabbergasted when he lowered his hands.

He was seated on a bench on a bustling corner in the center of Seville.

Enrique slowly rose to his feet, delighting in the aromas of delicious food drifting from the cafes. Women clad in the latest fashions and men dressed in fine suits wandered the shops lining the cobblestone streets. Strums of guitars filled the air from the musicians performing in the square.

The feeling of being at home nearly overwhelmed him. He had not visited the city after graduating the university. As he told the Ghost of Christmas Past, he had no reason to return.

"What are we doing here?" he asked, forcing his voice to remain steady.

The spirit drifted along the avenue and he followed. Several blocks later, they stopped outside a residence. Enrique swallowed hard. He knew this place, though he had never stepped foot inside.

While stationed in Bilbao, just weeks prior to departing for his new assignment in California, he received a letter from his mother detailing how she inherited some money from a distant relative. With those funds, she purchased a townhouse in the heart of the city she always cherished. Gazing at the rose-colored walls bordered with white trim and the wrought iron balconies off each window, he recognized this as his mother's abode from her descriptions. Colorful flowers grew in large planters on either side of the front door.

The spirit gripped his forearm and led him inside. A maid dusted a table in the foyer. Enrique surveyed the pieces of furniture and the paintings on the wall. Doña Hortensia Monastario lived a comfortable existence, if not the life of luxury she deserved.

"Mother," called a familiar voice from above. Laurita, every bit as radiant as when he last saw her, swept down the staircase in a sapphire blue gown that accentuated her eyes. He followed her into the sala. "Do you think this dress is suitable for Christmas dinner with Aunt Encarnación?"

"We have already been over this a dozen times today." With a playful shake of her head, Doña Hortensia chuckled and set her needlework aside. "It is beautiful, mi hija, just as you are."

"We will be dining with finest of Spanish and Portuguese nobility," she reminded.

"And you will be the envy of all," their mother insisted. "Now, change out of that dress. If we must send it out to be pressed, it will not be ready for our departure for Nazaré at the end of this week."

Enrique laughed. Apparently, his sister had yet to find a husband that met her high standards. Or, more aptly, she could not find a husband that would put up with her whims. Since their aunt snagged a duke, she would probably settle for no less than a prince.

Laurita bounded up the stairs and disappeared just as a knock sounded on the door. The maid entered the sala with a letter for the señora and went back to her chores. His mother's features twisted in concern as she broke the wax seal and began reading.

"I spied the messenger leaving from my window," Laurita said, flouncing into the room still wearing the blue gown. "If that rascal Porfirio sent me another love note, I will make him eat it."

Clutching the paper to her chest, Dona Hortensia staggered and collapsed to the floor.

"Mother!" Laurita dropped to her knees next to the fallen woman in the same second her brother raced to her side. "Mother?" she repeated, taking Hortensia's hand.

The frantic maid ran into the sala. "Fetch the doctor immediately, Pía," Laurita ordered as she began loosening the binds of her mother's clothing. She grabbed a pillow from the couch and tucked it under her head. Tears welled in her eyes as she pleaded, "Mamá, please wake up, Mamá."

"Mother?" Enrique murmured, wishing he could take her hand and offer her comfort, but he knew they could neither feel nor hear him. He instinctively reached for his sister, his fingers brushing through her arm. "I should be here with you, Laurita."

His sister's head shot up, startling Enrique.

"Laurita, did you hear me?"

She glanced nervously around the room and refocused her attention on their mother.

"Laurita?" Enrique asked again, nearly jumping when he felt thin fingers curling on his shoulder. He glanced back. The spirit indicated the hallway. "No, I refuse to leave them."

The skeletal hands seized him by the upper arms and hauled him to his feet. The strength of this ghost started Enrique as he was lifted inches off the ground and hoisted down the corridor. They entered a dark room he presumed to be the first floor guest quarters.

His sister sat beside a bed. An older man removed a stethoscope from around his neck and placed it in a black bag. A priest remained nearby in a chair by the window where the drapes were closed.

"I am sorry, Laura," the doctor said. "We will give you a few moments alone."

Her head dropped and sobs racked her slender frame. The two men departed for the sala and Enrique took a cautious step forward, fearing whom he would find in the bed.

His mother lay there eerily at rest, her skin pale. He knew she was dead.

The cries tugged at his heart and he wanted nothing more than to give his sister a comforting hug; to show her she was not alone. When she regained her composure, she pulled a small square of paper from the bodice of her sapphire dress. Laurita unfolded it. He recognized the broken seal and script. It was the very same letter his mother read moments before she collapsed.

She scanned the text, muttering a string of curses. "Damn you, Enrique! Damn you!"

Her vehemence shocked him. She rose from her seat and held the letter to a burning candle. He managed to catch a glimpse of the contents before flames engulfed the paper.

_Dear Señora Monastario,_

_We regret to inform you that your son, Enrique Sanchez Monastario, formerly a capitán of His Majesty's Army, has been stripped of his commission and convicted of crimes against the crown…_

He gulped and stumbled into the spirit. "I-I killed her…" His chest tightened and he felt the ghost holding him upright. More darkness swirled around the corners of his vision.

Blinking hard, the stuffy warmth of the bedroom gave way to a cool breeze caressing his cheek. They were now on the green lawns of a cemetery that Enrique recognized all to well. His eyes fell on the marble headstone engraved with the name Don Adrían Sanchez Monastario.

A matching marble slab was placed next to his. This one marked the final resting place of his beloved wife and the mother of his children, Doña Hortensia. Family and friends who gathered for the funeral service slowly dispersed while Laurita remained at her parents' graveside.

Some of their hushed gossip reached his ears.

"Poor girl. It is a shame she hails from such a wayward family."

"Sí, her father was a worthless gambler and her brother is no better."

"I heard he was thrown out of the army."

"I heard he was sent to prison."

"I always knew that troublemaker Enrique would turn out to be no good."

"How a fine woman like Hortensia could have a devil for a son is a mystery to me."

"You did not hear this from me, but it is said Laura is just as conniving."

Standing only a few feet away from his sister, he knew she heard their hushed words just as clearly as he did. The busybodies! A young woman buries her mother and they have nothing better to do than spread lies? He yearned to give them a piece of his mind.

When the last of the families stepped into an ornate carriage, and his temper diminished, Enrique studied his sister. She appeared so frail and so alone. "What happens to her?"

The spirit gestured for him to follow. With a final glance at the grieving Laurita, he compelled his weary body to move. His stomach churned in fear the ghost was leading him to her gravestone.

Rounding a cluster of fig trees several yards away, he stared agape at the grand hacienda that materialized before his eyes. It was situated at the end of a private cobblestone road and surrounded by a high gate. Something about this estate prompted a sense of déjà vu.

Enrique studied the lush vineyards covering the rolling hills for clues. In the distance, a stone wall sloped with the terrain. It reminded him of the one that surrounded the casita the old caretaker lived in. That is why it seemed so familiar – this was the southern district of the city where his family home used to be.

His gaze drifted to the hacienda again. The paint was a different color and the windows were now arched. Golden-colored tiles adorned the roof instead of the terra cotta ones he remembered. As they crossed the patio, he noticed new travertine tiles. But the layout of the home was the same.

It couldn't be…

They entered the sala. The décor was so ornate that it bordered on gaudy, triggering a snicker from Enrique. When a man has money, he should not be so garish with it. An older woman passed through the room and the spirit urged him to keep pace with her.

Trailing behind, he arched an eyebrow at the plump hips and gray peppering her once dark hair. Her fashionable attire denoted she was the lady of the house, but even the clothes could not brighten her gloomy disposition. What could this dowdy old señora possibly have to do with his or Laurita's future?

She ushered a young girl out of the kitchen. "Your hair is a mess. Let your sister fix it."

Enrique gasped, "Laurita?" He moved to get a better look at her face. Wrinkles and crow's feet marred her once youthful skin. Her eyes no longer held the vivacious twinkle.

"Madre de Dios, what became of her?"

A young lad, no older than twenty, came into the kitchen from the other side. "Mother?" Tagging behind him was a smaller boy that could be no older than ten or eleven.

"Mother?" Enrique repeated in disbelief. "T-these are her sons? Then the little niña is her daughter. She mentioned another girl." He blinked hard and pinched the bridge of his nose, struggling to comprehend this new revelation. "T-they are my nephews and nieces…" The spirit nodded.

From the upturned noses to the skinny necks to their narrow shoulders, the niños shared a resemblance as siblings would. Even the little girl had the same color hair. As her older son spoke, Enrique cringed at the nasally voice. Combined with this hacienda… Oh, no, she did not marry…

"Mother," he caught her attention, "Father asked me to research some contracts for him. I found this letter tucked between the pages of an old book. It is dated almost eighteen years ago." He unfolded it and began reading. "Dear Señora de Barrientos…"

Enrique clutched the nearest countertop for support as his knees buckled. She actually did it! His Laurita married that annoying little popinjay Plácido. But why? He knew the spineless weakling was always besotted with her, but she despised the weasel almost as much as he did. How in the hell could she do this to her own brother?

"This is to inform you that Enrique Sanchez Monastario is d–"

Laurita snatched the letter from her son's fingers.

"Mother, Monastario is your surname. Who is Enrique?"

She swallowed hard, twisting the parchment in her hands. Minutes ticked by. He did not think she would answer the question, when she finally replied, "He is no one." Laurita raised her head; a spark of the spirited young woman he knew shone through the older, drab exterior. "Your father will return shortly. See if your sisters are ready."

"They do not know of my existence," Enrique whispered. He spun to the spirit. "That letter was to inform her of my death." It was as much a statement as a question. The ghost nodded.

After her sons disappeared down the hallway, she turned and exited the other side of the kitchen. He followed her to the study where the boys must have come from. She sank into a chair. Sobs racked her body. Enrique bit his lower lip. He hated the helpless feeling that smothered him when she cried.

"Laurita," he said softly.

Her head shot up, just as it did when their mother collapsed.

"Laurita," he said again, kneeling at her side.

She shoved the letter into her dress and sprinted from the room. Enrique started to chase after her when the spirit blocked his path. "Now what?" he asked, suppressing his temper. "You show me these glimpses and then just as quickly yank them away. I need to see her again."

The spirit moved aside and he raced through the door—and into the courtyard of the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See. Luminarias lined the pathways leading to the patio. Festive music filled the air. Parishioners dressed in their very best exchanged merry holiday greetings.

This was the midnight mass on Christmas.

Enrique's blood boiled when he saw his boyhood nemesis Plácido escorting Laurita and their children through the crowd. How he wanted to strangle the fop! They stopped to mingle with others gathered for the service. When the de Barrientos made their way to the church, he caught bits and pieces of muted conversations from the alleged friends they just stepped away from.

"Roldán is a fine young man. Plácido must be very proud," an old caballero said.

So, his nephew's name was Roldán, Enrique mused.

"Let us pray he keeps that way. His mother's family runs in his veins, too," an old woman added.

"Traitors and gamblers," another man observed, shaking his head, "the whole lot of them."

His heart sank. What did the letter his mother received say? Something about him being convicted of crimes against the crown? "Decades have passed and the citizens of Seville still have nothing better to do than gossip about my sister?" Enrique turned toward the spirit. "Is that why Laurita married Plácido? She had no other options?"

It nodded.

Slumping against a wall, Enrique shivered. He killed his mother and forced his sister into marriage she did not want in order to survive. "What have I done?" He sank to the ground.

The spirit hovered closer and he looked up. "H-How did I die?"

Enrique stared at the ghost in puzzlement when it pointed to a bench. Vaguely understanding the gesture, he rose to his feet and moved to sit on the stone slab. As he did so, he found himself dressed in civilian clothes and seated at a long table in a courtroom. A heavyset judge struck the gavel on the sounding block.

First Vasca and now this bear of a man. Why were judges always so fat?

"Enrique Sanchez Monastario, this court finds you guilty on charges of forgery, larceny, extortion and conspiracy against the Spanish crown. You are hereby removed from duty, stripped of your rank of capitán in His Majesty King Ferdinand's Royal Army and sentenced to twenty years hard labor. Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Enrique's nostrils flared and he jumped to his feet. "I am guilty of no such crimes! I have been a loyal servant of our king. This is a mockery!" He froze as the words rolled off his tongue. They sounded eerily similar to accusations Alejandro de la Vega once hurled at him.

Firm hands grabbed his arms and hauled him from the courtroom. Chains were secured on his wrists and ankles and he was tossed onto the rear of a wagon. The lancers rode for long distances during the day and locked him in various garrison jails at night until they reached their destination – the mines of Sonora.

Cracking whips and howls of men in pain permeated the air. Pushed off the wagon, his captors hauled him deep into the dark caverns of the mountain. Torches barely made a dent in the heavy blackness. The nauseating stench of earth, blood, sweat and tears assailed his nose. The chains around his wrists and ankles were removed and he was shackled to a long line of laborers hacking at the dirt walls with pickaxes. Others on another chain dug with shovels.

An axe was thrust into his hands. Enrique gazed at it in bewilderment. When he did not get to work quickly enough, a lash sliced into his back. He groaned in pain, but gritted his teeth to stop the cry.

When the excavating ended for the day, the prisoners were taken to their cells. Several men were assigned to each; having no fight left in his body, he opted for the upper cot on a bunk that no one else claimed. It seemed he no sooner fell asleep than the guards ordered them back into the bowels of the earth.

The daze that consumed him slowly lifted and his defiance returned. "You cannot do this to me!" he shouted at one of the guards. "As a capitán and a commandante, I order you to stand down!"

Another lash tore into the flesh of his back.

He lost track of the days as weeks and months passed by. He could not tell the difference between morning and night—they were led into the mines in the early dawn and led out at dusk. Enrique craved the warmth and comfort of the sun. He yearned for a cool breeze to caress his cheek.

His battered body buckled under the strain of the brutal physical labor. His throat parched and stomach grumbling for decent food, he collapsed on the chain. More lashes ripped into his flesh.

Gasping for air and refusing to holler in pain, he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. When he opened them, a gentle hand held a cup of water to his lips. He looked up and saw kind eyes gazing down at him. The face was familiar and he struggled to put a name to it.

"Gracias," he rasped.

"De nada, Capitán," the man replied, his head lowered and voice meek.

It was in that moment he realized this man and his family were once his prisoners. Serrato, he thought, finally grasping the name. He noticed the husband and father did not wear chains, which meant he was here voluntarily. The señor did not find work on a rancho.

For a fleeting instance, Enrique Monastario felt sorry for Serrato.

When the guards locked him in the cell that night, he found he had new bunkmates. He never spoke with his fellow prisoners; his fellow prisoners never spoke with him. It was just as well. He did not give a damn why they were here and he sure as hell did not want to explain his own circumstances.

But these men were different. They stared at him with a level of contempt that he had never discerned before, even on the faces of the hacendados he battled. Enrique ignored the looks and went straight to his bunk.

"I hear you are that corrupt commandante," a squat hombre with a scar said.

"Sent my brother to this hellhole for not paying his taxes," a broad shouldered bull added.

"Whipped my friends when they did not move boulders fast enough," an Indian chimed in.

"We ought to teach this _commandante_ a lesson," Scar-Face snickered.

Enrique swallowed the fear rising in his throat as he climbed into bed. A rough hand pulled him down. He just barely ducked the fist aimed at his skull. Another punch flew at his jaw. He dodged this one with ease, delivering his own fist into Scar-Face's belly. The Indian pounced on him from behind and knocked him hard to the ground.

A swift kick made contact with his chest. Enrique shielded his head with his arms and curled into a ball as a flurry of punches and kicks assailed his body. A stomp on his knee made him wail. He felt his ribs cracking. A blow to his head sent him into darkness.

When Enrique's eyelids fluttered open, he gazed out at dry, barren land. Basic crosses made from sticks littered the landscape. The tenderness that accompanied a myriad of bruises traced from head to toe. He reached up to touch his jaw and cheeks, but felt no swelling.

It was then he realized he was back in his uniform.

"Where are we?" he inquired of the spirit. It pointed to a makeshift cross wedged in freshly tilled dirt. Enrique stepped closer and read the crude carving:

Monasterio – Died 1823

His sight focused on the 'e' as the blood boiled in his veins. "They misspelled my name!"

Realization sank in. "I must have survived for two years in that hellhole," he gasped, "and I died there." He leaned against the nearest boulder. "Laurita is living on the other side of the world, married to Plácido, and no one here gives a damn that I am gone."

He pressed his palms to his temples, grappling to keep the flood of emotions swirling inside from breaking loose. The rhythmic sound of hoof beats in the distance drew his attention. He watched the carriage come closer. His jaw dropped when he recognized one of the two passengers.

Garcia exited the vehicle and then helped a woman step down. His eyes widened upon noticing the stripes on the soldier's sleeves. "He is a lieutenant now?"

The couple strolled to the gravesite arm-in-arm. Enrique's eyes grew even bigger when he spotted the gold wedding ring on the señora's finger. "And he is married?"

"I still do not understand why you wish to do this, Demetrio," she said. "From all I have heard about this Capitán Monastario, he does not deserve your last respects."

"It is difficult to explain, Eva," Garcia sighed, "but the capitán was not all bad."

"Anyone who called my husband a baboso and an idiota cannot be good."

Garcia chuckled. "Everyone deserves to have someone care about them." He smiled that goofy, bashful smile that was uniquely his and took his wife's hand. "You taught me that."

"The sentimental fool," Enrique muttered, though deep down, he was touched that the sergeant would make the long journey to visit his grave.

Garcia and his wife remained for a few more minutes, standing in silence, and returned to their carriage. He watched them disappear in the horizon on the same path they arrived. Enrique peered over his shoulder at the marker.

Weak legs took him to his own grave and he knelt before the wooden cross. He traced a trembling finger over the rough carving. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. The wood grain disappeared and his fingers stroked nothing but air. He opened his lids.

Capitán Monastario was kneeling in his bedroom.

Searing pain coursed over his back and every inch of his body ached. He ran to the mirror to inspect his face. No cuts or bruises covered his skin. He shed his jacket and shirt to examine his back. Again, unblemished flesh was reflected in the mirror.

Monastario's rapid breathing slowed. Buttoning the shirt and jacket as he slipped into them, he made a beeline for the decanter of brandy on the bureau. Filling a glass, he downed in it one long gulp. He took them to his office where he poured another as he settled into the chair at his desk.

"I will not let that be my future."


	5. Chapter 5

**Monastario's Haunted Christmas**

**Chapter 5  
****"A Choice to Make"**

The horrifying images swirled in front of Capitán Monastario's eyes in rhythm with the golden alcohol swirling in the glass. They kept coming as if they were pages fluttering in a book that refused to close. He could not blink them away no matter how hard he tried.

His mother collapsing at his feet; his sister alone beside their parents' graves; his proud Laurita driven into a marriage of convenience with their childhood nemesis—it hurt more than the sting of the lashes tearing into his back, more than the kicks and punches those bastards delivered upon his broken body.

It all began with Zorro. That was how it would end. Only this time, it would end in his favor.

Monastario took a slow sip from the second serving of brandy, contemplating a plan of action. He needed to find and kill the fox before the event with the viceroy. With the bandit dead, he would receive a promotion to colonel and ensure the fate of his family stayed on the proper course.

One riddle lingered at the forefront of his thoughts as he set the glass down. Was Diego de la Vega really Zorro? The commandante trusted his instincts to be correct for he was rarely wrong. His dilemma came in proving it beyond a doubt, especially considering de la Vega counted the viceroy amongst his friends. He could not afford to make the same mistakes twice; or rather, he could not afford to make those mistakes at all.

Monastario crossed from his desk to the filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He retrieved the records pertaining to the fox and returned to his chair.

"Feliz Navidad, Enrique."

The capitán dropped the quill in his grasp and jerked his head up. Ramón lounged on the couch looking quite comfortable. The ghost examined the label on the bottle of wine from dinner.

"You still will not wish me a Merry Christmas, eh?"

Monastario crinkled his brow and glanced at the clock. He lost all track of time and forgot the approaching holiday amid his new challenge.

"It is a quarter till eleven, mi amigo," Ramón said, apparently reading his mind. "In a little more than an hour, it will be Christmas morning. It would not hurt you to at least feign a greeting, Enrique." He floated next to the capitán. "Plotting against your enemy while drinking brandy? Must I advise you the two do not mix well together?"

Monastario closed the register and pushed it aside. "I-I did not expect to see you again."

"Do I need a reason to visit my friend?"

"If you were alive, I would answer no," Monastario replied. "But considering you are…" he trailed off as he gestured at the transparent figure. "Under the circumstances, the answer is yes."

"Either a little bit of that Monastario humor is shining through or you are getting comfortable with the presence of ghosts." Ramón chuckled and folded his arms over his chest. "I am here because you are nearing the final phase of your journey. You have a choice to make, Enrique."

This piqued the capitán's curiosity. "What choice might that be?"

"Do you continue on this current path that leads to your destruction," Ramón paused, "or do you start anew and finally live up to the potential the young ensign I once knew possessed?"

Monastario huffed. "Who says I am not changing my path?"

"By setting your sights on this bandit Zorro?" Ramón motioned to the register. "You give the enemy too much credit, mi amigo. The fox is merely one symptom of a larger problem. Until that problem is resolved, there will always be a fox in the shadows taunting you."

"If you are implying that I am the problem, you can take that theory and shove it up your–"

"Enrique! There is no need to be crude." Ramón's eyes twinkled with amusement. "You always did entertain grand ambitions. Dare I say it? You were always consumed with an insatiable thirst for greed and power, too. There was a time when you kept those demons in check."

"Demons?" Monastario scooted back in the chair, bolted to his feet and circled the desk where he stared down this spirit. "Do not chastise me for something you have no knowledge of, Ramón."

"You are a tyrant, Enrique."

"Damn it!" Monastario slammed his fist on a pile of papers. "I told you not to call me that!"

A sad smiled formed on Ramón's lips. "You bravely led soldiers into battle in Toulouse. Entire regiments of Spanish troops under Freire's command were massacred, but your brigade under Morillo suffered minimal losses. When Napoleon escaped Elba and marched to Paris, you were one of Wellington's primary contacts in the Spanish government. Why? He trusted the young lieutenant."

The air grew thick, making it difficult to breathe. Monastario turned and made for the window on the far end of his office before the achievements suffocated him. It felt so long ago, almost as if a lifetime had passed. He parted the drapes and pushed the shutter open a crack so his lancers would not bear witness to their commandante's insanity.

"In the years following the war, you brought order to rampant chaos in the ciudads you were assigned to. You arranged for essential supplies and distributed them to those in need. The lieutenant displayed compassion to those less fortunate; to those devastated by war."

Monastario felt a cool breeze tickling his flesh beneath the uniform. He crooked his head and saw the ghostly hand squeezing his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he swallowed hard.

"You are a good man, Enrique, and an exceptional officer. Why can you not be that leader here in Los Angeles? Are you so far removed from your superiors in Madrid that your feel it prudent to unleash your inhibitions? Do you really believe you cannot be caught?"

The speechless commandante kept his eyes affixed on a groove in the floor.

Ramón floated to the desk and picked up a stack of folders. "Capitán Monastario growls that the army does not make any attempt for decent recruits. Ensign and Lieutenant Monastario would have found it a challenge to train these men to be good soldiers—and he would have succeeded in the task. What happened to you, Enrique?"

Monastario sank onto the couch and cupped his head in his hands. After a long pause, he lowered his arms and gazed at his friend. "What would you have me do, Ramón? Yield to the demands of these pompous hacendados? If I give them an inch, they will insist upon a mile."

"Not yield, my friend, but at a minimum listen to their concerns."

The commandante rubbed his weary eyes. "There is something you do not understand. These landowners would not have the nerve to make some of the demands they do if we were still in Spain. If I am guilty of any abuses, then they are equally responsible of the same."

Ramón shook his head in dismay. "They react with heated tempers, thus you counter in the same manner. Is that it?" He sat on the couch next to his friend. "Put an end to it. Be the bigger man."

Monastario looked away. "I-I do not think I can do it."

"It is not that you can't, Enrique, but that you don't want to."

The capitán stood and began pacing the open space. "It would never work, Ramón. The dons do not trust me. The peasants do not trust me. Hell, I do not trust them." Monastario's disdainful laugh filled the office. "Do you honestly believe we could ever make amends?"

"You will never know unless you try."

The more he considered the suggestion, the more it grated on his nerves. He could see the smirk on Nacho's face and hear the insolent tone in Alejandro's voice. The noble bastards all deemed themselves better than the commandante. "Anytime they disagree with my command, they will set their blasted fox on me. No. I cannot—will not—do it."

"Perhaps you are no longer the same man I called my friend."

Monastario pivoted at the words. The profound disappointment evident on Ramón's features made his stomach churn. He lowered his eyes in shame. This man sacrificed his life so a young ensign would live to see another day. He owed Ramón a debt greater than evading Alejandro's mocking.

Not only that, his mother deserved better in her son and his sister deserved better in her brother.

"I never thanked you," Ramón said quietly, interrupting the capitán's inner musings. "Considering I am dead, the blunder should be forgiven. I can think of no better reason for a lapse in good manners than one's demise. Besides, are you aware of any incidents where a corpse mailed a thank you note? I imagine it would terrify the recipient."

Monastario chuckled. This was his friend through and through, morbid humor and all.

Ramón grew serious. "It is said that being interred on the battlefield is the highest honor a soldier can receive, but I am forever grateful you brought me home, Enrique."

"You don't–"

"Sí, I do," Ramón interrupted, raising a hand to silence the officer. "There is no way you could know this, but my grandfather was buried in the same small cemetery. He used to take me fishing when I was a boy. I forever cherished our time together. It means a lot to me to be close to him."

"You are welcome," Monastario managed, his voice hoarse. After regaining control of his emotions, his lips curled into a lopsided smile. "I am sorry I never taught you to read as I promised."

"Ah, it is as much my fault as yours. I was not exactly the best student. They may both have curves, but letters do not hold the same appeal as pretty señoritas," he said with a wink. "You taught me to sign my name and the basics of the alphabet. That is more than I ever dreamed of achieving."

Monastario's grin widened as he returned to the couch. He missed having a friend to confide in. "Speaking of curves, do you remember the Lopez sisters in Logroño?"

"How could I forget?" Ramón replied, playfully looking offended. "Just because I am dead does not mean I am lifeless. The thought of those three kept me warm on many a cold night under the stars."

"Same here," Monastario laughed.

"Ah, but not one of the sisters could hold a candle to your Amelia. I am sorry, Enrique."

He could not even begin to count the number of times that hollow expression was said to him after his fiancée died. As much as Monastario grew to loathe those words, he found comfort in them now. Ramón's sympathy was genuine and not laced with the pity that he had come to associate with condolences.

"Gracias, mi amigo."

Finding the courage to ask the question that burned on the tip of his tongue for seven years—the same question that went unanswered earlier—the capitán aimed his gaze on the ghost. He hoped his friend would not vanish this time. "Why did you save me, Ramón?"

"Do you have to ask? Baboso!"

Monastario arched an eyebrow. A part of him wondered how Garcia would react if he discovered this corporal used to call him the very same insult the commandante reserved for his sergeant.

"You were my friend. I could not have lived with myself if I let that frog kill you." Ramón crooked his head. "Do not look so surprised, Enrique. You would have done the same for me."

Monastario turned away. "I-I am not so sure."

"That is only the tyrant speaking," Ramón joked, slapping the capitán on the back. "I have no doubt Ensign Monastario would have saved my life if our situations were reversed."

"I am honored you have that much faith in me." Monastario smiled and lifted his chin. "Merry–" But there was no ghost sitting next to him. "Ramón?"

With a heavy sigh, the capitán ran his hands over his face. As he rose to his feet, he glanced at the personnel folders and the register chronicling the fox's activities on top of his desk. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but his heart was not up to chasing his enemy at the moment.

Monastario let out another long sigh and strolled to the door. The crisp night air caressed his cheek as he wandered onto the portico. He craved this kiss from Mother Nature when he was imprisoned in that hellhole… The capitán shuddered and shook the memory away.

Private Delgado relieved Private Ortega and stood guard at the base of the stairs. Monastario nodded to the lancer on his way to the courtyard. His heart clenched when he spied the Serrato family huddled together in their cell.

This meek little man could have scoffed at the fallen commandante. Instead, he offered him water and even showed respect by referring to him by his rank. Serrato surrendered his life for the benefit of his wife and children; it was not all that far removed from the sacrifice Ramón made.

Damn, Monastario cursed. He despised these emotions.

"Private Ibarra," he called out to the lancer in the shadows. "Bring me the keys to the jail."

Garcia materialized from beneath a pile of hay. "Has Zorro been spotted?" Pieces of golden straw clung to his uniform and stuck out from under his hat.

"No, you ba–" Monastario caught the insult on his tongue and exhaled. He took the key from Ibarra and unlocked the cell. "The charges are dropped. Señor Serrato and his family are free to leave."

"Really?" Garcia said, his eyes growing big. He sheathed the drawn saber in his grasp.

"Really, Sergeant." The capitán addressed the señor, "Padre Felipe hosts a Christmas banquet for the families of our district at the Mission San Gabriel after midnight services. If you depart now, there is still time to make it. I am certain he would be pleased to have you join them."

"G-Gracias, Commandante," Serrato stuttered.

Monastario took a deep breath. "Sergeant Garcia, I leave it to you to find volunteers amongst the men to guard the cuartel. You and the other soldiers are to accompany the Serratos to the mission. You may stay for the feast as well."

Garcia's big smile shifted into a creased brow. "Are you feeling well, Capitán?"

"I am fine, Sergeant. Do not try my patience."

"No, Capitán." The grin returned to the chubby soldier's features and he spread his arms wide. For a fleeting second, Monastario feared the idiot would hug him, but Garcia recovered what little sense he owned and saluted. "Gracias, Capitán, gracias!"

"Send Private Hernandez to me," Monastario ordered.

"Sí, mi Capitán." Garcia ushered the family toward the wagon and returned a few minutes later with Hernandez in tow. Both soldiers straightened and saluted their superior.

"Private, effective tomorrow morning, your request for a three-day pass is granted."

The two lancers exchanged puzzled looks. "Y-You mean that, Capitán?" Hernandez asked.

"I would not have said it if I did not mean it, you idiot!" Monastario gritted his teeth. Why did the men under his command have to act like he was going mad? "I will extend it to five days if you both stop with the stupid questions."

"Gracias, Capitán!" Hernandez exclaimed and they hurried away.

Garcia nudged his fellow soldier in the ribs when they got to the wagon. His baritone voice drifted back to the commandante. "I do not know what has gotten into the capitán, but we had better enjoy it while it lasts." A chorus of 'síes' followed.

Monastario pressed a palm to his pulsating temple. They were not making this easy. He watched the wagon and horses exit the gates. Left alone with his thoughts, he roamed the courtyard until he came to a halt at the stables. Hero nudged him in the chest.

"You want to go for a ride, too?"

The mare neighed and Monastario chuckled as she pushed her warm nose to his neck. A brisk nighttime outing might be just what he needed to clear his head of the haunting. He took the bridle from the hook and then went about saddling the horse.

Monastario realized he missed doing this for himself. It had been a long time since he took care of his own mount. Since assuming the role of commandante, he expected the animal to be prepared whenever he desired and handed the reins off to a private upon returning.

"Uno momento." He fetched his hat, sword and cloak from his office, pausing at the safe.

Swinging onto Hero, he urged her out of the cuartel at a steady walk. Once on the outskirts of the pueblo, he let her run. The nearly full moon bathed the landscape in a shimmering glow. He almost wished his enemy would appear on the horizon. As much as he despised the fox, he grudgingly conceded chasing him amid the rolling hills was fun.

Tonight was the perfect night for a lively pursuit.

Monastario lost all sense of time as they cantered on the gently sloping land. An orange glow in the distance caught his attention. He steered Hero toward the flames and all but cursed when he realized where they were. "How did I end up at the mission?"

Bonfires burned a safe distance from the buildings. Colorful paper luminarias lined the pathways just as they did at the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the See in Seville. Fancy carriages and plain wagons drawn by teams of horses and the occasional mule crowded the open areas between the myriad of swing sets. Dozens of steeds were tethered to hitching posts.

Every citizen in the region must have made the journey.

Hero and her rider wound their way to the rear of the mission. Monastario was well acquainted with the compound having once seized it to force the traitor Torres from sanctuary. He secured Hero next to the other soldiers' mounts, removed his hat and entered through a back entrance.

Monastario kept to the lesser used hallways and approached a door leading to the service. Padre Felipe's voice reverberated off the walls. The capitán stopped just short of the threshold and observed from the shadows. Licenciado Pina stood at the rear, precisely as he did during the journey with the Ghost of the Present. Scanning the faces, he stiffened when his eyes fell on the de la Vegas.

Diego de la Vega. Zorro. His enemy.

His breathing accelerated and he fought the urge to march into the sanctuary and haul the phony popinjay out by his collar. Alejandro sat beside his son. To his surprise, the crippled servant also sat with them. Diego treating the mozo like a member of the family intrigued the capitán.

Padre Felipe concluded his sermon. The parishioners rose from the pews. Some went to share greetings with the friar while others exchanged small talk with friends and neighbors. Garcia smiled and nodded, but nothing thwarted his quest as he led the other soldiers to the banquet room. The hacendados trickled outside to chat some more and to board their carriages.

The Macías siblings snuck away from the others and approached the doorway cloaking the commandante. When they glimpsed his presence, they halted and backtracked to a different exit, but not before Rogelio gave him a dirty sneer.

They passed within Padre Felipe's field of vision. "Children, wait," he called out to them. They slowed and greeted the friar. "Paola, is your family not joining us for the feast?"

"You have already been too kind to us this year, Padre," she replied, "We cannot keep taking advantage of your hospitality. We have a chicken at home waiting to be prepared."

"Nonsense," the padre refuted. "There is more than enough for everyone. I would like very much for you to stay. At the very least," he smiled, "indulge the whims of an old man at the holidays."

"I would like to stay," Telma said, tugging on her sister's hand.

"Me, too," Rogelio added.

As they conversed, Timoteo hobbled closer to the commandante. The boy stopped about two yards from the threshold and inclined his head. Monastario raised an eyebrow at being scrutinized by this peasant child. Why did it look at him this way?

"Feliz Navidad, Capitán."

Monastario gaped. He could not hide his surprise. Timoteo did what no other man in the pueblo would dare. This boy approached the vilified commandante and wished him a Merry Christmas.

The capitán shifted his weight and cleared his throat. "Feliz Navidad, Timoteo."

Rogelio ran to his brother and snatched him away with such tenacity that an observer would think he was about to be eaten by a grizzly bear. "What are you doing? Are you loco?"

Padre Felipe ushered them toward the dining hall and spun on the officer. His eyes flared with anger, erasing all traces of the customarily gentle features, as he strode directly to his nemesis. "What is it this time, Commandante? Is it now against the law to celebrate the birth of Our Lord?"

"Did I say such a thing?"

"Then what are you doing here?"

For a man of the cloth—and a short one at that—the padre had gumption. Monastario reached for the pouch of pesos tucked at his waist. The same pesos he ordered his lancers to collect under the guise of administrative fees. "I–" but he could not find the words. "This is a mistake."

He turned to leave when a strong hand gripped his forearm. Monastario bristled at the contact, but his rage dissipated when he looked down on the padre, whose expression softened. The brown eyes still contained guarded suspicion, but the accusatory tone faded from his voice.

"What brings you to the mission tonight, Capitán?"

He clutched the pouch, struggling to explain he had a donation. As much as he wanted to make Ramón proud, this felt… wrong. This was like letting those pompous hacendados win. Monastario closed his eyes and took a deep breath when it struck him. The Macías family did not go home for Christmas dinner. That meant the future was already changing.

A fresh upsurge of defiance swelled in his veins. He could not begin anew as long as his enemy still roamed free. Monastario needed a clean slate—and he knew exactly how to obtain it.

"I will secure my future right now."

"What are you talking about?"

Ignoring the inquiry, the capitán pushed past the padre and marched into the dining hall. He located Garcia hovering near the long tables covered with bountiful amounts of food, an empty plate firmly in his chubby fingers, waiting for the feast to commence. Monastario could almost see the saliva dribbling down the double chin from across the room.

"Sergeant Garcia!" Everyone in the sala jumped. "You and the other lancers come with me."

"I knew it was too good to be true," Garcia groaned.

Many of the more prominent hacendados remained gathered outside by the warmth of the bonfires, the laughter dying on their lips as they parted to allow the determined commandante through. He delighted in his authority over these haughty fools. With a blissful grin, he slowed his pace upon detecting the target of his hunt. Garcia and the lancers caught up to their superior.

"Diego, Alejandro, I am glad to find you are still here." Monastario maintained an air of politeness as he greeted them. "You are both under arrest. Sergeant, take the de la Vegas into custody."

"On what charges?" Alejandro demanded, his face flushing with anger.

Oh, how Monastario wanted to laugh, but he would not give the fox the satisfaction of knowing how much he savored this moment. "Diego, would you like to tell your father about your nightly activities or shall I?" He detected a faint trace of anxiety in the young don's eyes.

"Diego?" Alejandro inquired. "What is he talking about?"

For the first time since unmasking the fox, Monastario realized the elder de la Vega was probably unaware of his son's deception. No father could berate his son to such an extent unless he truly believed his offspring was a worthless, submissive poet. This was going to be fun!

"Your son is the bandit el Zorro, Alejandro." Monastario noted the little deaf mute servant's eyes widening. So, he read lips. "Sergeant, take the de la Vega mozo into custody as well."

The old don huffed. "You have finally gone mad, Capitán. It pains me to say this, but Diego can no more be Zorro than you or I. He possesses neither the skills nor the disposition."

"You have put on a most impressive act, Diego," Monastario gloated, "but you cannot fool me any longer. I am inclined to believe you kept your father in the dark regarding your actions, but considering the fox operates out of his hacienda, that makes him guilty of conspiring with a traitor to our crown."

A circle formed around the foes as bystanders crept closer to hear the exchange while keeping a safe distance from the lancers. Diego exploited this opening to put on his best wounded puppy façade for them, just as he did for the viceroy. "You are making a mistake, Capitán."

"Am I?" Monastario chuckled. The commandante would not play into the fox's paws this time. He could also dazzle the citizens with a grand performance. "I find it amusing how you donned a mask to elude prosecution and to protect your father. It is that very same mask that dooms you both."

Diego remained silent, failing to utter a witty retort.

"It is no coincidence that Zorro first appeared within days of your return home. Nor is it a coincidence the first person the fox saved was Nacho Torres, a man who is like a second papá to you. Do you not find it strange, Diego," Monastario stepped closer to his enemy, "that whenever Zorro strikes, you are always close at hand, but the two of you are never seen together?"

Alejandro snuck a glance at his son, whose expression remained impassive.

"Not a day passed by when you did not visit the mission while I had Torres cornered here; only when Zorro emerged did you vanish. Who can forget the ridiculous story about the Ghost of the Mad Monk you recited to Sergeant Garcia?"

One corner of Diego's lip curled ever so slightly up. Ha, he could not resist reveling in his prank!

"How convenient for Zorro to exploit the haunting tale to his advantage later that same night," Monastario remarked. "Did you think I would not discover the source of this legend? You aided Torres again at his hacienda, going so far as to tie yourself up in the wine cellar to avoid suspicion."

"The commandante is most confused," Diego sighed. "This is becoming an obsession."

Monastario ignored the cheeky comment and gestured to Alejandro. "Your father went on trial for the most heinous crime of treason. Elena and her mother were there to support Torres, but you could not be bothered to attend—that is until after Zorro interfered in the verdict."

Diego pressed his lips together in a thin line. He was nervous, as he should be!

Monastario moved away from the de la Vegas, drawing his rapier and wielding it through the air. He held the weapon up and admired the moonlight and flames glinting off the steel. "Not to mention Zorro's proficiency with the blade is quite extraordinary. His dexterity is unmatched by native Californians. That level of skill is honed by the finest masters in Europe, such as the ones who teach at the University of Madrid. Is that not where Alejandro sent you for an education? I recall him once bragging you studied under the tutelage of the famous Colonel Federico de Cuevas."

The old don paled and Garcia peered at his friend in a new light.

Monastario turned his eyes away and lowered the blade with a decisive swish. He lunged at Diego, who expertly sidestepped the attack and adopted the en garde position. "Excellent reflexes and footwork for a pacifist scholar," the capitán quipped. "You just betrayed your identity, Señor Zorro."

Alejandro recovered his voice. "Diego, tell him this is not true!"

Damn, the commandante enjoyed this! If only Tomás did not depart so early.

"Sergeant Garcia, secure the prisoners in the wagon. Lancers, keep sharp watch. Señor Zorro is a clever one," Monastario ordered. "I will follow behind." He stared into Diego's eyes and encountered not the popinjay, but the full-blown fox. "My pistol will be aimed at your father. Any tricks and I will not hesitate to shoot."

"You cannot do this, Capitán!" Alejandro growled. "This is insane! My son is not Zorro."

Monastario almost felt sorry for the old don, until the voice of the judge sentencing him to the mines echoed in his ears. The commandante deserved no more than a written reprimand on his record. At worse, he should have been discharged from the service. This arrogant landowner ensured his son's accuser suffered the most humiliating punishment permissible.

"Remember when you attacked my cuartel, Alejandro? You were as close to Zorro then as I am to you now. The two of you spent an entire night dodging my lancers. His height, his build, his voice, the thin moustache… Do you honestly believe your son is not the fox?"

Recognition shone in the old man's eyes and Monastario felt a surge of triumph.

Padre Felipe found his way inside the circle. "What do you plan to do with these men?"

"Execute them as traitors, of course," Monastario replied, "today at noon."

Alejandro's knees buckled. If not for the lancers holding him upright, he would have collapsed to the ground. "You have no right! We demand a trial!"

"You are in no position to demand anything, Alejandro. I am the commandante of this pueblo. It is my duty to see that traitors to the crown are dealt with according to the law. Our law dictates death. I am well within my rights."

The padre ran a trembling hand over his jaw. "Capitán, it is Christmas. I beg of you, please dispense with this nonsense. When Zorro rides to their rescue, it will only make you look foolish."

"I am not the one who will look foolish." Monastario smiled. "Do not worry, Padre. If I am wrong, Zorro will fly over the cuartel wall and my lancers will seize him. He will take their place at the gallows and I will offer Alejandro and Diego my sincerest apologies for this terrible inconvenience."

"Terrible inconcenience?" Padre Felipe repeated, shaking his head. "You are planning to murder three upstanding members of our community!"

"No, I am planning to execute a black ghost who terrorizes the citizens of this pueblo and his two accomplices," Monastario replied. "I advise you to drop this subject before I am duty bound to arrest you, too." The capitán motioned for the prisoners to be taken away.

He sheathed his rapier and retrieved the pouch from his waist, feeling the weight of coins in his hand. Monastario handed it to the friar and bowed. "Please accept this donation for the church's poor box. Feliz Navidad, Padre."

The capitán swung onto Hero's saddle and followed the wagon to the pueblo. True to his word, he kept a pistol aimed on Alejandro the entire route, but Diego did not try anything. Much to Monastario's surprise, his adversary appeared defeated. He sat with his head lowered and his shoulders hunched, not answering any of his father's hushed questions.

Once they arrived in the cuartel, he directed his soldiers to lock each man in a separate cell. Garcia secured the last door and handed the keys to his superior. "I have the lancers on full alert for Zorro, Commandante."

"No need, Sergeant, I do not expect any trouble. We have Zorro safely behind bars. Assign the usual number of guards to sentry detail. The rest of you may retire for the night. See to it construction begins on the gallows at daybreak." Monastario tossed the key ring back to Garcia. "Place these on my desk. I will return shortly."

"Commandante," Garcia hesitated, "Don Diego is not Zorro… is he?"

The dejected look on the round features caused some of his jubilation to dwindle. He gave Garcia's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I understand this must be difficult for you, Sergeant, but do not take Diego's ruse personally. He deceived us all with his treachery."

Garcia chewed his lower lip, glancing uncertainly at the jail.

Monastario strolled across the plaza toward Licenciado Pina's office. He hoped Tomás was still awake. There was never a better time to have a celebratory drink with the lawyer than now.

* * *

Capitán Monastario glanced over his report. Finding it to be satisfactory, he signed his name and prepared it for dispatch to Santa Barbara. He lit a small candle to melt the stick of sealing wax when a knock on his office door captured his attention. "Enter."

A somber Sergeant Garcia saluted. "The gallows are ready for inspection, mi Capitán."

"I will be there in a moment, Sergeant." Monastario stowed the report in his desk drawer for safe keeping, blew out the flame and went to examine his lancers' craftsmanship. He climbed the stairs and relished the view from the scaffold. His hand lingered on the lever for a moment before he pulled it. The trapdoor dropped without a hitch. "Excellent, Sergeant."

Rubbing his hand over the wood grain, he recalled the pleasant dream where he hanged the fox. Now that his dream was coming true, he needed to make it special. "Today is Christmas. It requires a more festive ambiance. Sergeant, confiscate some poinsettias from the plaza and place them on the edges here," he pointed to the floor of the structure.

"Poinsettias?" Garcia repeated. "You want me to fetch poinsettias?"

Monastario stroked his goatee. "We must have some garland around here somewhere. See to it that it is wrapped around the posts and the stair railing. Perhaps even some colorful ribbon, too."

"But, Commandante, you hate poinsettias. You kick them out of your way," Garcia said, "and you ordered the merchants to remove the garland from their porches earlier this month."

"That was before I had a reason to celebrate. Hurry, Sergeant, the noon hour is almost upon us."

Garcia shrugged and motioned for some lancers to follow him to the plaza. Monastario watched with glee as they decorated the gallows in hues of red and green. They managed to obtain a few spools of silver and gold ribbon, adding to the merry atmosphere.

"Perfect," Monastario whispered.

"Capitán," Private Ortega cleared his throat, "Padre Felipe is at the gate."

"No doubt he wants to confer with the prisoners. Permit him entrance."

"This is an abomination upon Our Lord!" Padre Felipe's voice carried over the din of the cuartel as he set his sight on the gallows. "Capitán, you cannot execute men on Christmas Day."

"Would you prefer I execute women?" Monastario joked. The friar went white as a sheet. "I am only teasing, Padre. If you are here to reiterate your objections, they are duly noted."

Padre Felipe scowled. "Don Alejandro, Diego and Bernardo have the right to repent their sins—not that they have committed any—and have a priest attend this farce."

"You may talk with them, but I will not allow you inside the cells," Monastario said, gesturing for a private. "Your safety is of my upmost concern." He instructed Delgado to escort the padre.

When the noon hour struck, the three prisoners were led up the stairs, hands tied behind their backs, under heavy guard. Garcia, Pina and the padre remained on the scaffold while the other lancers opened the gates and guarded the crowd assembled outside. A pin drop could be heard amid the stunned silence. Doctor Avilla was admitted and kept near the barracks.

The capitán placed a noose around each man's neck, giving Diego's an extra tug. He smirked when the don grunted. "Do you have any last requests, Señor Zorro?"

"Sí," Diego replied, barely above a whisper. Monastario arched an eyebrow out of genuine curiosity. "My horse, Tornado, I ask that you ensure he is well cared for."

"This is quite reasonable. Very well, Diego, I will see to it this Tornado is not harmed."

"I also implore that you spare Bernardo's life." Diego turned his head to face his servant. "He is a simple man who can neither speak nor hear. He cannot fully comprehend his role in my activities."

Garcia, Pina and Padre Felipe gasped. Monastario grinned. Was this an actual confession?

"If you spare his life, he can show you to Tornado and provide all the evidence you need to prove I am Zorro." The deaf mute adamantly shook his head. "Please, Bernardo," Diego begged.

"Don Diego," Garcia whimpered, "Then it is true… You called me a big, fat pig."

"I never meant to hurt you, Sergeant," Diego said, his voice raspy.

Monastario carefully considered this request. It would be worth letting this mozo go free to flaunt Diego's treason in front of the viceroy. "Your compassion for your friend touches me, Diego. I will spare his life, but he will be exiled from Spain and all of her territories, if he holds up his end of the bargain."

A tear trickled down Bernardo's cheek.

"Do it, mi amigo, por favor," Diego urged. "You saved my life once; this is my chance to return the favor. Tornado will starve if he cannot break past the barrier."

The deaf mute lowered his head and nodded. Monastario removed the noose from his neck and ordered Ibarra to return him to the jail. "Is that all, Diego?"

"My father–"

"Do not press my generosity too much," Monastario warned.

Diego glanced to his side. "I am sorry, Father."

Alejandro, who had remained speechless, conjured a smile. "I am proud of you, mi hijo."

The capitán rolled his eyes. Before he pulled out the official indictment, he stepped closer to his foe. "You were my greatest challenge, Diego. I will miss our games."

He unfurled the parchment. "Diego de la Vega, you are guilty of the crime of high treason against His Majesty King Ferdinand VII of Spain and his Royal Army. Alejandro de la Vega, you are guilty of conspiring and sheltering a traitor to our king. For these crimes, you are both sentenced to death. May God have mercy on you souls."

Monastario pulled the lever. The trapdoor opened; the bodies dropped. Doctor Avilla checked on the de la Vegas and pronounced them dead. The capitán gave the order to cut them down.

As they were taken away for burial, Monastario found Garcia moping in a corner. The sergeant counted Diego as one of his true friends. Now he learned it was all a part of the caballero's grand deception. "Sergeant," he said without his usual bark, "Prepare Bernardo to ride out to the de la Vega rancho."

"Sí, mi Capitán."

A short time later, the three men arrived at the gates of the hacienda. Vaqueros scattered as they approached. Monastario took the manservant by the elbow and led him onto the patio. The housekeeper fled inside the home.

He made certain the mozo could see his lips. "Show me to the fox's lair."

Bernardo glanced between the capitán and the sergeant, finally shrugging and climbing the stairs. Monastario threw his hands up in defeat. "Where is that idiot going?"

"Maybe we should follow the little one, Commandante."

"Of course we are going to follow him, baboso. I'm not letting him wander free." The soldiers trailed Bernardo up the steps and into Diego's bedroom, where he lit a lantern at the desk.

"Now what is he doing?" Monastario inhaled sharply and his hands curled into fists at his sides. "I do not have time for this nonsense. Where is this horse Tornado?"

Bernardo looked past the commandante and nodded. Monastario glanced over his shoulder and saw Garcia tracing a 'Z' into the air with a chubby finger. "Why am I not surprised the two of you can communicate?" he muttered.

The manservant touched a spot on the corner of the fireplace mantle. A panel on the wall swung open. Monastario's eyes widened. He had heard these old haciendas were often built with secret passages so the owners could escape in case of an Indian uprising. Why did he not consider this before?

He snatched the lantern from the deaf mute and peered into the darkness. Entering the adjoining room, his eyes glittered in victory. Monastario set the light on the desk and strode to the black clothes hanging from a hook. He let his fingers glide over the cool silk of the cloak.

Garcia squeezed through the opening. "Madre de Dios, Don Diego really was Zorro," he muttered, as if he still could not believe in his friend's betrayal even after the confession on the gallows.

Monastario retrieved the fox's sword and drew it partially out of the scabbard. It was fine weapon obviously crafted by a talented bladesmith, but not nearly of the same quality as the capitán's. He put it aside and found the mask. His laugh reverberated in the small space. "Let's see the viceroy defend his friend now."

Garcia shifted his weight, gazing at the items in discomfort. Monastario was glad he brought the sergeant along; no one could bear better witness to de la Vega's charade. The citizens never doubted the word of this honest and bumbling soldier.

"Where is this Tornado?" Monastario asked Bernardo.

The deaf mute pointed to the staircase that descended into blackness.

"Let's go, Sergeant."

Garcia gulped. "Should I not stay here to guard the evidence?"

"Now, Sergeant." Monastario retrieved the lantern and led the way, mindful of his steps on the uneven stone. Bernardo followed with Garcia keeping close on the manservant's heels.

The long passageway twisted like a snake and seemed to dig deep into the bowels of the earth. Stone and brick gave way to dirt and rocks. The taller soldiers ducked to avoid hitting their heads on a few low overhangs. Thumps sounded from above.

"W-What is that noise?" Garcia asked.

"We must be below the stables." Monastario's boot hit something. He bent to pick up an old skull and grinned. "I wonder who this fellow is."

The whites of Garcia's eyes doubled in size and he screamed.

"Oh, shut up, baboso, or I will leave you here to join him." He put the skull down.

They continued on until the narrow corridor opened into a large cave. Sunlight filtered in through foliage-covered gaps in the rocks. A large black stallion raised his head at the approaching visitors. Tornado reared high on his hind legs and neighed when he saw the capitán. Nostrils flared, the horse snorted and kicked the dirt.

Monastario stepped back as the deaf mute ran to soothe the animal.

"He must know you killed his master, Commandante," Garcia offered.

Tornado's scream resounded in the cavern.

"Good going, Sergeant."

Garcia shrugged. "Sorry, mi Commandante."

Bernardo managed to calm the animal enough that the plump soldier dared to move closer. "You sure are a pretty horse." The stallion nudged Garcia in the belly and he chuckled. He rubbed its neck. "So your name is Tornado, eh? I always said you are as fast as the wind."

Monastario watched the scene in sheer astonishment. He should have known the stallion would take a liking to Garcia. It was stupid enough to remain loyal to de la Vega. "He is yours, Sergeant, if you so desire."

"Really? Gracias, Capitán, gracias."

"I warn you, Sergeant, keep him away from my mare."

Garcia crinkled his brow. His cheeks blushed as the implication sank in. "Ah, of course, Capitán."

Monastario set the lantern on the dirt and maneuvered around the beast, keeping close to the walls, until he reached the vines at the mouth of the cave. A heavy wood beam extended the length of the opening. He presumed this was the barrier Diego spoke of.

He ducked beneath it and pushed through the vines. The blinding rays of the afternoon sun caused him to blink rapidly to adjust to the light. Monastario marveled at the box canyon. "You thought of everything, Diego, didn't you?"

The capitán returned to the cave. They rounded up the evidence and proceed to the cuartel. Garcia rode his new mount, his chubby face beaming. Everyone they passed stared agape when they saw the fox's coal black stallion.

Once Bernardo was locked in a cell, Garcia broke away from the horde of lancers eager to hear what transpired. "What will do with the little one, Capitán? Y-You will not kill Bernardo."

"I am a man of my word, Sergeant. There is a ship departing San Pedro for Argentina next week. Arrangements will be made for Bernardo to be put on that ship."

"Gracias, mi Capitán."

Monastario couldn't stop the smile from forming on his lips. In his good mood, he decided to allow the soldier to show off his black stallion. "Sergeant, I want you and a small group of lancers to search for Señor Serrato. Inform him if he is still in need of employment, there will always be a position for him at my rancho."

Garcia crinkled his forehead. "Your rancho?"

"Alejandro and Diego de la Vega were executed as traitors to our country. In the name of our king, I am obligated as commandante of this pueblo to seize their lands and assets. Until it is decided what to do with the estate, I shall be in charge of it."

"Sí, mi Capitán."

"Should you pass by the Macías home, alert the siblings they may stop by my office at their earliest convenience to collect the death benefits for their father. The bonus for the corporal's exemplary service on behalf of His Majesty in Santa Inéz is also authorized for release."

"Uh, sí, mi Capitán."

"Effective tomorrow, the administrative fees for the merchant stands are rescinded. Peddlers will still be required to maintain their stands to current safety specifications."

Garcia scratched his head. "Very well."

Monastario ignored the confusion etched into the round face. "When you return from searching for Señor Serrato, you are to call on the innkeeper."

"The tavern is closed today for Christmas."

"I am aware of that. This will only take a few minutes of his time. Since duty summoned the lancers away from Padre Felipe's banquet, I want you to make arrangements for a feast tomorrow. We shall hold it here in the cuartel so all of the men may enjoy it." Monastario patted the sergeant on the shoulder. "I leave the final decisions concerning the menu and wine selection to you."

Garcia's grin stretched from ear to ear. "Gracias, Commandante," he nearly shouted.

Monastario watched him hurry to his fellow soldiers and share the news as they saddled their horses. As the sergeant led the troops out the gate astride Tornado, he strolled toward his office. He chose not to crush Garcia's excitement by telling him rigorous drills would begin the following day.

Enrique Sanchez Monastario, Capitán in His Majesty's Royal Army, had a new goal in life. He would turn this ragtag regiment into the finest garrison in Alta California. At the top of the stairs, he pivoted and could have sworn he glimpsed the ghost of Corporal Cordova in the courtyard smiling in approval.

"Merry Christmas, Ramón."

**The End**

* * *

Yes, the commandante won. :-) Monastario's final appearance on the show was first broadcast on January 2, 1958. After nearly 55 years, the man deserves to triumph at least once. This is my gift to my fellow Monastario fans. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!


End file.
